The Uniform Makes for Brotherhood,
by Norsemungandr
Summary: "A team centered around people with powers? How many on the list?" The Cattapillers Program. [SYOC Closed]
1. Character List

"A team centered around people with powers? How many on the list?" [SYOC]

* * *

 **Molly Hayes:** I added your character to the list; sorry about that, I missed it because the review was in moderation. Fixed that for you.

Thank you all for the subscriptions so far! You've given me a lot of reading material to work with.

For those considering submitting an OC, below is the current list; I update it any time I can get, but do be aware for any time differences and terrible sleeping patterns. If it takes me a while to respond, please do not be put off; It's likely I'll either just be asleep, or working. For those waiting and/or working on their OCs, please keep an eye on this page as it will likely be updated frequently.

The **FINAL** List, completed on **27/08/2015** at **18:11** [UK Time] is:

 **TEAM MEMBERS:**  
 **1:** Elyssa "Penumbra" Laurelle Evans, [Shadow Manipulation] - **Mayday Sentry  
** _A former resident of Afterlife and S.H.I.E.L.D. regular, Elyssa stands at slightly above average height at 5' 8", with dark blue eyes and strawberry blond hair. Elyssa has the ability to manipulate and control shadow. Once she found out about Caterpillar, she came out of hiding to make a difference and in hopes of finding her father._

 **2:** Daine "Poison dart" Queen [Water Manipulation] - **DaineQueentheNavyRaven  
** _Originally of Wisconsin, Daine is a short young woman of 23 with blonde hair and grey eyes. Capable of manipulating water and bending to to her will, she was a S.H.I.E.L.D. regular before HYDRA's uprising._

 **3:** Olivia/Liv "Phantom" Anderson [Telekinesis] - **AwesomeGirl909  
** _Olivia Anderson is a young woman of Sokovian decent with ombré black to grey hair and brown eyes. After an incident regarding her telekinetic and memory implanting abilities, Olivia wishes to help people without having to to warp their minds._

 **4:** Terrence "Anansi" Mensah [Energy Throwing] - **scrawlx1012  
** _Terrence Mensah, a former local gang member, was apprehended and selected for the Cattapiller Program after an incident involving a Nuclear Power Plant and a mysterious visit from an unknown benefactor caused his Inhuman powers to awaken. Capable of throwing energy, Terrence is a tall man with short black curly hair and hazel eyes._ **  
**

 **5:** Serena Hope "Celestial Star" Barnes [Energy Plasmoids/Lumikinetic Explosive Light Blasting] - **Molly Hayes  
** _Serena Hope Barnes is a brown haired 12 year old capable of generating Lumikinetic Explosive Light. A very anxious, nervous through extremely curious youngster, Serena was taken in by the Caterpillar Program after an incident with her newly discovered powers had her taken into an orphanage. **  
**_  
 **6:** Juniper "Wisp" Desdemona [Evaporative abilities] - **Nefertam  
** _Hailing from America, Juniper is an attractive young man with wavy brown hair, blue eyes, and the ability to evaporate at will. With a a goofy, aloof sense of humor, 17 year old Juniper completes the strike team with his strange, though admittedly double-edged, ability._

 **TEAM-ADDONS, EXPERTS, SUPPORT CORPS:**  
 **1:** Marcus "Legate" Manderfeld, [Hypercognition] - Tactical and Navigational Analyst - **Norsemungandr  
** _Of Dutch decent, Marcus Manderfeld is a highly intelligent individual capable of Hypercognition upon the stimulation of specific hormones and chemicals. While aggressive and unpredictable during Episodes, Marcus himself is a calm, easygoing small male with dark hair and blue eyes. Currently acts as Daisy Johnson's deputy and tactical analyst._

 **2:** Dr. Kira "Vixen" Elaine Fox [Hyper Perception] - Auxiliary Team Member - **Spitfire303  
** _A former S.H.I.E.L.D. field agent, Dr. Kira nFox was a capable combatant with enhanced senses, who found herself displaced after the HYDRA uprising. Accepted into Caterpillar, Kira is a woman of medium height, blonde hair and blue/green eyes. Specialises in mechanical and chemical engineering._

 **3:** Ki-Mei "Avarice" Chan [Sixth Sense] - Swords-master, Auxiliary Team Member - **AsgardianGrizzly  
** _A highly competent master swordsman, Ki-Mei Chan is a retentively tall male with dark hair and eyes. With the ability to sense attacks and dull pain during combat, Ki-Mei, combined with his long list of connections, is a capable team member. Regardless of any mischief._

 **4:** Artyom Vladimir & Andrei Nikitovich "Aplomado-One, Aplomado-Two" Volkov [Mind Link] - Reconnaissance and Special Ops - **Civillian**.  
 _A pair of twins originally hailing for the Ukraine, Artyom and Andrei are born n' bred hunters connected by a the power to link minds with one-another. Taking the form of tall, blonde haired grey eyed, heavily built young men, the only way to tell them apart physically is as so: Artyom wears a beard, Andrei wears an eyepatch. Not that it helps._

 **VILLAINS:**  
 **1:** Roberta "Sapphire Angel" Xavier, [Ability to fly] - Villain No. 1 - **Phantomtwriter  
** _A smuggler with the ability to generate sapphire armour and fly with the use of wings, Roberta Xavier takes the form of a tall, striking woman of 6'5'', dark hair and hazel eyes. Known for attacking S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and law enforcement with extreme prejudice, she is a formidable foe._

 **2:** Omega-X 666 [Wolf Form] - Villain No. 2 - **W. R. Winters  
** _An albino with the incredible ability to turn into a wolf-form, Omega-X 666 is an experiment created by HYDRA for specific use. Currently living on the streets surviving off of scraps, Omega-X 666 is often given assignments by his HYDRA controllers._

 **3:** Simon "Bloodhound" LeBlanc [Psychic Navigation] - Villain No. 3 - **The Restless Drifter.  
** _A former Inhuman mercenary alongside Lance Hunter, Simon LeBlanc is a tall, striking gun-for-hire on a quest for revenge. Capable of using a sub-power of telepathy, Simon can track his targets over long distances by their mental wavelength._

 **4:** Johnny-Lee "Svalmond" Milford [Electricity Maniplulation] - Villain No. 4 - **Faulkner.  
** _Johnny-Lee Milford is a genius level hacker with a grudge. Heading a group of Inhuman mercenaries known as the Eighth Syndicate, this short, ginger haired male will do anything to find those responsible within S.H.I.E.L.D. for the crimes committed against Afterlife._

 **5:** Barnard "Providence" Kruger [Chemical/Hormone Ejection] - Villain No. 5 - **Iron-Doughnut.  
** Born with an extraordinary mutagen, Barnard Kruger is capable of ejecting almost any hormone, pheromones and even certain toxins such as morphine or anthrax either into his own body, or the air around him. A tall, striking male with blonde hair and brown eyes; he is a deadly opponent to have to face.

 **6:** Diego "Wretched Reaper" Sapateiro - **TheStuffIlike -** Villain No. 6 **  
 _DESCRIPTION COMING SOON_**

 **THE CAMEO LIST:** **[** **31/08/15]**

\- Natalie Coleman - **doublem9327** [Tagged as an additional extra]

\- Galaxy von Justice - **Hofund** [Tagged as "Endgame" Character]


	2. Teaser: Grote Wereld

**[** TEASER **]**

 **|‖** тне цпіћіբоѓщ щакеѕ բоя вготћеяћооԁ **‖|  
** [the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

This morning was not exactly going the way he had first hoped.

Standing in the doorway to his kitchen, Marcus Manderfeld stares across the room at the woman sat on the counter next to the refrigerator and shivers with the sudden, acute realisation that he's in nothing but his boxers and a thin undershirt.

And, yes, of course, the pulsing ache in the back of his skull. That... That too.

Manderfeld breathes, unclenches his hands. Blinks. Then launches himself into a counting routine.

 _1, 8, 22, 43, 71, 106, 148, 197, 253, 316, 386, 463, 547, 638, 736, 841, 953, 1072, 1198, 1331_ _—_

It's a newer one, this time: (7n2−7n+2)/2. Centered heptagonal primes. Manderfeld doesn't know them as well. He has to think. _Really_ think.

"And here I thought you people forgot about me." He says absently, padding over towards the refrigerator for a bottle of Grote Wereld and blocking her out with the door. The bright light makes him wince and spills out into the rest of the kitchen in a wash of pale silver.

 _—_ _1471, 1618, 1772, 1933, 2101, 2276, 2458... 2647..._? Yes. _2843, 3046, 3256, 3473, 3697, 3928, 4166_ _—_

"Just between you and me, S.H.I.E.L.D. could never forget anyone like you." The woman says lightly, almost cheerily. Manderfeld slams the refrigerator door shut, pauses imperceptibly, and then sighs.

He hands her a bottle too.

 _—_ _4411, 4663, 4922, 5188, 5461, 5741, 6028, 6322, 6623, 6931, 7246..._ _Oh_.

Manderfeld frowns. _Right_. _Okay_. _Battleships it is, then._

He tilts his chin as he starts rattling off the names in his head.

 _Alabama BB-8, Alabama BB-60, Arizona BB-39, Arkansas BB-33, California BB-44, Colorado BB-45_ _—_

"Just between you and me?" Manderfeld says. "I—... Well. It doesn't hurt to hope; God knows even I started to forget." The cap of his drink snaps off, and he leans against the counter opposite. "It's not that I... I just wasn't expecting... Y'know, after everything..."

The woman previously introduced to him as Skye a month or so ago twists open her bottle and takes a disgusted drink. "What is this?" She grimaces, but takes another mouthful afterward. Then another. Menderfeld leans his elbows against the counter and regards her with a flat, though amused expression. "And we're doing okay now. Not... well, not without consequences; but we're doing good. AC and me. Everything is ready. What did he say? We need you to come in or something? Call in? I don't know."

Manderfeld nods.

 _—_ _Connecticut BB-18, Delaware BB-28, Florida BB-30, Georgia BB-15, Idaho BB-24, Idaho BB-42_ —

"It's called _Grote Wereld_." Manderfeld replies, and Skye scrunches her face up. "High Life, in English. Disgusting, but it promotes cognitive performance."

"Cognitively, I think I'm doing okay." She says idly, slipping off the counter. "So, you in? Awesome. No beating around it, little buddy; I need to ask you to do more stuff that I'd never ask anyone to do. Ever."

"I—... Uh. _Okay_?"

"Do you know how to fly a plane?"

"Nee."

"Can you learn?"

Manderfeld shifts uneasily at her sheepish request, before smiling down at his feet and rocking back onto his heels. He nods his head. Folds his arms.

And then he laughs.

"Oh, absolutely." And then he falters. "Just not in my boxers. Eeh?"


	3. Chapter 1, Part 1: Polar Molecules

**[ONE** **]**

 **|‖** тне цпіћіբоѓщ щакеѕ բоя вготћеяћооԁ **‖|  
** [the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Well, here we go!

Since there are only two places left on the villain section, I think it's pretty much safe to begin the first few "chapters", since they'll be the main team/ally character introductions rather than parts of core storyline. I will introduce characters in order of how they appear on the list (for example, this part here will focus primarily on the recruitment of my OC Marcus, and Mayday Sentry's Elyssa) so if you want a vague idea of where your character may show up, check there for an idea.

The reason why the term "Chapters" was put in quotation marks there is because most chapters will only end after specific storyline arcs have been completed; chapter one will focus on the recruitment, for example, and will be split into an estimated four parts. It depends how long they get; I do not _usually_ have chapters longer then five-thousand words at maximum, because editing and checking that much text is difficult, particularly on this site where errors can be quite common.

So, without any further ado; please keep all arms inside the carriage, fasten that seatbelt, and enjoy the ride.

* * *

 **|‖ CHAPTER ONE ‖|  
POLAR MOLECULES**

The CXD 5465 Airborne Mobile Command Station, designated "S.H.I.E.L.D. 1-9-8" or as it has since been dubbed "The Praetorian", was how Manderfeld—or as he has officially been known for the past three and a quarter hours, _Agent_ Manderfeld—would describe, an absolute _akelig_ _meisje_ , of an S.H.I.E.L.D. standard Globemaster.

True, Manderfeld himself had little interest in aviation before being approached by Skye—or as he had introduced herself now, Agent "Just call me Skye" Johnson. He had never considered joining the military and had little need to travel internationally, so any and all interest was strictly superficial. Twelve separate books on military aircraft, another three dozen separate films, videos and online guides, and then a crash course on a PC simulator was all it had taken, however, before Marcus deemed himself capable of piloting one of these powerful machines.

Marcus will admit; being a mentally unstable time bomb had it's advantages. He had become a pilot, essentially, in the time it took for them to drive to a small private military airfield and for Skye to order a coffee.

"For most people it usually takes two years or more." She had told him that morning as he inspected the great big hunk of metal sitting in the middle of the runway.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but most people don't fly things like—" He had waved his hand at the plane for emphasis. "— _This_."

Skye had just shrugged.

Not that it didn't have it's disadvantages. The sort of Episodes he triggers himself through concentration and a sheer force of will are usually less... _severe_ than those caused by antagonistic means, but he wasn't exactly comfortable; he had a headache, by the time he had sat down at the pilot's chair, and had broken into a sweat the point of having to get changed. Twice.

Now, Marcus sat alone in the expansive cockpit that was actually supposed to accommodate more than one pilot and tried valiantly to keep himself calm. Around him, the digital avionics system glows with the eerie mechanical lights of the tube displays, two full-capability HUDs and cargo systems. The quadruple-redundant electronic flight control system flashes at him once, almost angrily, which startles him more than he cared to strictly admit, and the two central processing computers, data management computer and two air data computers all chatter away normally.

Manderfeld swallows and wraps his hand around the yoke. The 'W' shaped metal felt comfortable in his hands, but the frantic, thundering beats of his heart prove that he himself is actually far from such.

 _Polar Molecules._ He thinks, suddenly. _Go_.

He's given the go-ahead from the passenger decks. Manderfeld contacts ground control. Voice muted by the terrific roar of the Pratt & Whitney F117-PW-100 turbofan engines, he grumbles into the mic.

"Marissen clearance, BC-One Seven, One Nine Eight ready to copy Guðbjörn."

 _HF, NH3, HCl, HBr, HI, OF2, SeCl2, SCl2, PCl3_ —

 _"BC-One Seven, One Nine Eight_ _, cleared to Guðbjörn via radar vectors as filed. Fly runway heading. Limb and maintain six thousand feet; expect one five thousand fifteen minutes after departure. Departure on 120.9, squawk 0351._ _"_ The response tears through his headset with a burst of static, and Manderfeld breathes in sharply.

His phone vibrates on the co-pilot's seat, the screen flashing with an all-capitals message.

 **"IGNORE HIM."**

 _—SO2, Ch3Cl, CH3Br, SeCl, CHCl3, CO(CH3)2, H2S, CH3C,l KBr & H20, H2O2—_

"Cleared Guðbjörn as filed, fly runway heading, up to six thousand feet, departure 120.9, squawk 0351, BC-17, 1-9-8." Manderfeld replies, and then tunes into the automated weather broadcast. His phone vibrates again.

 **"GOT IN."**

"Marissen tower, BC-One Seven, One Nine Eight ready for takeoff IFR, runway two-niner."

 _"_ _BC-One Seven, One Nine Eight_ _, winds two eight zero at eleven, cleared for takeoff."_ The winds are at 280 degrees and blowing at 11 knots, and that he is cleared to takeoff. _"Cleared for takeoff runway two-niner, BC-17, 1-9-8."_

 _—_ _CH3OH, CH3COOH, CH3NH2 methy amine, C2H5Oh ethyl alcohol, C6H12O6 glucose, CH3CH2OH ethanol, 1-propanol CH3Ch2CH2OH, 2-propanol CH2CH2OHCH3, 1-butanol CH3CH2CH2CH2OH, acetone (CH3)2CO, H3O+ H202 CH20—_

It's not what he expects; there's a bone-shaking roar, but as the plane began to rise higher, faster, until he felt like he was going to be pushed right through the back of his chair, but there were no bumps. No nothing. Just a smooth take off.

Manderfeld takes one good look at the swanky interior again, at the new mission computers and displays, new software for the warning and caution systems.

The vibration came again. Manderfeld turns his head.

 **"6000ft, ACTIVATE DRONE."**

He had no idea what a "Drone" was, but as he looks across the side consoles and finds a bright yellow post-it note, Manderfeld at least knows where to find it. It's a trigger. Blue, surrounded by lots of other little switches of varying colour. Most of them are red.

Vibration.

 **"DON'T PRESS RED."**

Manderfeld blinks... How in God's name...?

 **"UNLESS U WANNA BLOW A HOLE THE SIZE OF MOON INTO ISLAND."**

He feels the blood drain from his face right there and then, and he pulls a face as he snaps his head back towards the windscreen. No amount of lists or counting or anything or everything could prepare him for that statement, but his fear is controlled, it appears, in this powerful but strangely familiar machine. Manderfeld looks down at the controls again and wonders, idly, what he was capable of here. His fingers drum over the yoke in thought.

And, more importantly, just what in God's name he'd gotten himself into _this_ time.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

At six thousand feet, Manderfeld presses the blue switch and watches as a bright little flare looking object flies out from under his left wing and straight forwards at a speed that is, apparently, more than their current 830 km/h, because it only takes a few minutes before it's close to vanishing.

Once it flies out of his eye range into the horizon, Manderfeld switches on autopilot and stands, moving around the cramped interior out into the main body of the plane.

According to Skye, they hadn't had enough time to create a command plane as, and Manderfeld has to quote here, "swanky" and "James Bond", as the last one. She did not elaborate what happened to this fabled "Last one", but honestly, Manderfeld doesn't really need to know; he can guess. At any rate, however, this plane was far more Spartan than she had seemingly first expected. It leaves Manderfeld not entirely sure as to what she was expecting. This plane was beyond impressive in his books.

"It doesn't have a bar." She tells him grimly as he steps into Command & Control. "I'm sat here, in this room, without any Martinis or beers and it's boring as hell."

From the other side of the room, a blonde, blue-eyed male regards Skye with something that looks close to displeasure. "Not that you ever did before," he says, lightly and regards Manderfeld with a nod as he stands to approach. "Agent Manderfeld. It's good to see you."

"Good to be here," Manderfeld replies automatically, taking Director Coulson's— _only_ , Manderfeld realises with a surprise jerk—hand for a shake.

"How do you like our new girl?"

He doesn't seem too surprised when Manderfeld turns to direct his gaze elsewhere.

"She's... incredible." He answers, glancing up at the large screen along one side of the wall. What was that again? The AE? Manderfeld grimaced. _Ay-Eee_. Not _Ah-Ay_. American English. Analytics Engine. _Ay-Eee._ Ay-Eee. AE. "Though I... What was with the thingy?"

"The drone?" Skye asks, and nods. "It sends out a false radar signal. For up until it goes out of range, the folk back at the terminal will be none the wiser. I hacked into their databases too and just deleted everything they had on us."

Manderfeld blinks. He doesn't quite get it. "Oh."

"That's just the specifics," she grins. "I don't want to bore you with tech."

"We wouldn't want that," Coulson replies, smiling slightly. "Let's just hope she has a longer shelf-life than our last one." Something crosses over his face when Manderfeld looks his way, and the Dutch man himself has to look away again almost immediately. It wasn't particularly hostile of an expression; if anything, the Director was simple remembering something; he wasn't being offensive in any way, but Manderfeld is tired and dilapidated. He doesn't want to risk it.

Two episodes in one day? God's blood. Manderfeld would no sooner jump out of the plane.

"Speaking of the Praetorian," Coulson adds offhandedly. "We were thinking. Legate, or Centurion?"

Skye leans her elbows up against the table, studying Manderfeld across the deck. "The first sounds better. "The Legate", y'know? "The Legate's Praetorian"."

Manderfeld opens his mouth to ask, but Coulson seemingly senses his confusion, because the Director elaborates. "The Caterpillar team will be using code names while on the field. You won't be out there with them all if we can help it, but it's tradition, I guess."

Turning to Skye, Manderfeld looks right over her head. "What's yours?"

"I don't really know yet." She admits, but a grin breaks out afterwards. "But whatever It'll be, It'll be awesome."

"I'm sure it will," Coulson replies lightly. He indicates towards one of the seats, and Manderfeld takes it, sinking into the leather back and setting both palms flat onto the table. "So Legate it is, then. It's better then some codenames I've heard over the years."

He slides a file across the tabletop, and Manderfeld snaps towards it, sending out his left hand to grasp it firmly. In bold black letters the name "Elyssa Laurelle Evans" is printed out on the front.

"Elyssa Evens is currently hiding out in a safehouse in Arkansas." Coulson recites, not even looking at his own file. "Skye met her mother in Afterlife; apparently, she's the daughter of Byron Evans. He worked for S.H.I.E.L.D. in our intelligence and technology division. We sent out some feelers, and as it turns out, she not only realised but effectively reached out to contact us."

Manderfeld scans through the notes and paragraphs of printed little sentences, committing the data to memory to review later. "She's looking for her father, you assume?"

"Yes."

"She a... Uh, what do you call it?"

"Inhuman?"

"Ja."

Coulson sets his hand onto the table. "Reports seem to indicate so, yes. We have no physical evidence, however. We'll have to see when we get there."

Manderfeld scrunches his face up in thought. He needs more information on this. Not just the girl; everything. Inhuman, they said. But he was a born and bred Dutchman; his father and sister showed no signs of... whatever it is he did. S.H.I.E.L.D. called it the "Omnicompetence Factor", which, in his opinion, sounded far more pretentious than it was in reality, but he's not too sure if it applies here. He's had this since he was little. Everything he's read here indicates that it's unlocked somehow.

He wants to ask, but at the same time, the heavy drag of doubt in his chest keeps his mouth firmly closed.

Manderfeld decides to take it into the cockpit to read instead; once they get to wherever they are going, he'll find answers there.

 _But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it_ , and all.

Indeed. Plenty of time for learning later.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

They arrived at ten O'clock at "night", according to local time. For Manderfeld, having flown from the Netherlands, it was in the middle of the day for him, and that meant he was going to end up having a serious time-lag problem by the time they landed for good. By the time they'd get to Iceland, It'd be well past three in the morning, and by that point his body clock would most certainly be shot.

For for someone who usually sleeps more hours a day than he actually spends awake, this is nothing short of uncomfortable. Manderfeld was starting to drift off if he sat down for too long.

While the plane was on autopilot, he caught an hour or two, but this plane was far faster than the average Globemaster. What should be 15 hours was cut down to 7 and a quarter, and he kept on waking up every time something in the cockpit went off, resulting in ten to twenty minutes of broken bouts of napping. Pacing around did not do much for him, either. He was caught in a trap of restless sleeping.

Coulson explained that the cure for this was to get some vigorous physical exercise and then take a short nap—no more than two hours—in the early afternoon, following which he'd try to eat something big and have plenty of physical exercise so Manderfeld could fall asleep that night at his regular bedtime.

The look that accompanied this was knowing, as if Coulson was aware of Manderfeld's terrible sleeping patterns.

He probably was.

When they landed in Little Rock, they were treated to the sight of a black SUV lurking right behind the cargo bay door. When it opened with the hiss of hydraulics and whir of mechanical servos, the car drove up almost immediately without waiting; it was up on the cargo bay by the time Manderfeld managed to pluck up the courage to slip out of the cockpit and down onto the lower deck.

The woman was taller than he; of American decent with dark blue eyes and thick waves of strawberry blonde hair that curled as it fell past her shoulder blades. Dressed for the night chill, her hands were tucked into the sleeves of a baggy hoodie.

Manderfeld stopped.

Something was wrong.

It took him a moment to track; the shadows were all wrong. They were learning differently.

Manderfeld snapped his head towards the woman. Evans.

Sure enough...

"Huh."

Manderfeld blinks.

Coulson heard the soft acknowledgement and turned, tilting his head towards Manderfeld. "Ah. Manderfeld." He extended his full arm and beckoned him. Slowly, Manderfeld shuffled over, his gaze firmly locked onto the floor. "Agent Manderfeld, should I say. We've just been speaking with Miss Evans here."

"Eeh."

He knows that Evans is looking at him, but Manderfeld can't manage more than a short glance. He sends out his right hand to shake instead, trying to make up for his apparently abhorrent social skills. "It's a pleasure." He notes softly, and then diverts his gaze to that of Coulson's shoes. Oxfords.

"Yes." She murmurs, evidently unsure. Well at least he isn't the only one taking to proceedings with the grace and dignity of a complete nervous wreck. "It's lovely to meet you too."

Manderfeld very nearly laughs at the absurdity of it all, but he manages to keep his manners in check. Coulson shifts along the floor and Manderfeld's attention is brought away from his shoes to that of the SUV parked beside them. A short young man wearing the fatigues of the US Air Force was busily cranking away, strapping it onto the cargo bay floor.

"Manderfeld here is our pilot. Back in the Premises, he'll also be the team's Tactical and Navigational Analyst."

Judging by her snap expression, she had little idea what a "Tactical and Navigational Analyst was". Manderfeld was three dossiers and a S.H.I.E.L.D. handbook from being in the same boat. He flashes her a apologetic look when Coulson breaks off from speaking.

She sighs and nods her head. "So, this is it?"

"You have up until that cargo bay door closes to make your decision for good." Coulson nods. "After that, you stay at the pleasure of S.H.I.E.L.D."

Manderfeld grimaced. Coulson smirked.

"Oh, we had you from the beginning." He replied to Manderfeld's expression. Evans' gaze flickers between the pair of them and Coulson returns to her. "That gives you about an hour. Reflect on what I told you, Evans, and I'll see you when the hour is up."

Evans takes one long look outside, towards some seemingly absent point, taking in the darkness beyond that is only faintly illuminated by the flight-line beyond.

"I don't think that is necessary." She says suddenly, almost urgently. "I want to do this."

Coulson stares at her for a few seconds, his eyes searching and the wheels in his brain turning.

Just when the silence begins to get uncomfortable, he smiles.

"Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Agent Evens."

Manderfeld tilts his head. "What's her codename going to be?" He asks, more to Coulson and more out of the desperation of not being the only one walking about with a new name, but the shadow of a smile appears around her mouth and he finds his attention being redirected.

"Well, you know the shadows." She leans back against the SUV. She flicks her hand towards them, and the react, twisting and stretching slightly. "So, you know, "Penumbra"."

He instantly looks towards Coulson for a translation.

Coulson suddenly looks out of his depth, and his expression twists with the effort. "Sort of like a, well, schaduw, Marcus. I don't... It's shaded part of a shadow cast by an opaque object. That's what penumbra means."

Oh. "Halfschaduw." He blinks. "Partial shade."

Evans nods. "That sounds about right." Then she frowns slightly in thought. "What is that? German?"

"Nederlands." He allows himself to grin. "Ik ben meer Nederlands dan windmolens."

Coulson rolls his eyes, but he's smirking.

"That's quite the impressive feat, Legate."

* * *

 **[the uniform makes for brotherhood]**

* * *

 **A/N:**

So, horribly mundane? Wonderfully great? _Meh_? You decide. The character's third person POV (is that even a thing?) changes per chapter. In this case. So it will be Elyssa's turn next, and we'll be meeting the new batch of character's: Daine Queen and Spitfire303's Vixen.

For those interested:

\- **"akelig meisje"** is a play of "she-beast", or in direct translation, "nasty girl". Just because of how meek Marcus in appearance doesn't mean he doesn't fall pray to atypical affectionate masculine comments.

\- **"Ik ben meer Nederlands dan windmolens."** \- Quite literally, "I'm more Dutch then Windmills." Y'know, Windmills in the Netherlands. Quite common. Very Dutch. Much like Marcus.

The reason for Marcus' codename is taken originally from the plane; "Praetorians" were Roman military bodyguards who protected emperors and high ranking officers. Now that Marcus is responsible for the plane, "Legate" seemed quite fitting. Oh, and the term "S.H.I.E.L.D. 1-9-8" is taken from Skye's birth-year. Fun fact.

The second part will likely be up at some point in the near future, but until then, I bid you all a goodnight.


	4. Chapter 1, Part 2: Red Creme Soda

**[TWO]**

 **|‖** тне цпіћіբоѓщ щакеѕ բоя вготћеяћооԁ **‖|** **  
**[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Ahh! Thank you all for the reviews! Elysse's (Mayday Sentry's OC) time to highlight now, so let me know if you like how the character feels.

* * *

 **|‖ CHAPTER ONE, PART TWO ‖|  
RED CREME SODA**

The Pretorian cruised over the Atlantic at thirty thousand feet, traveling at a speed just over five-hundred mph.

Elyssa Evans sat in the illuminated crew quarters, both hands clutching a frosted glass of Barq's Red Creme Soda. Although the plane itself was seemingly still, the three small ice cubes in her drink clanked together with the vibrations, sending ripples of soda rolling up against the edges of the glass. She stares at them for a lack of anything better to stare at, lost in thought as the events proceeding to this clouded her mind.

It seems surreal that, after everything she had seen and done, how everything could go forth so simply; watching her father leave Afterlife, the bitter feeling of loneliness after Garrett moved away, her mother's apparent lack of parental interest, leaving afterlife to live with her father, S.H.I.E.L.D... Losing both her father and S.H.I.E.L.D., and then, hiding for Lord knows how long in that squat little safe house. Elyssa couldn't help but feel she was rushing it. After all, this wasn't just living with S.H.I.E.L.D. It was a team of... _what_? Superheros? A collection of genetic nutcases?

Honestly, she's just happy she's found S.H.I.E.L.D. again. The news did not paint a particularly rosy picture for its fate.

 _Well, you_ ' _re here now,_ Elyssa told herself with forced enthusiasm. If anyone can help her find her father, it'll be the super secret organisation he used to work for.

Eyes flickering over towards the darkened shadows of the room, Elyssa stood with a sense of determination, poured out a second glass and made her way to the cockpit.

She had not spoken with the other team member after their awkward little introduction back in the cargo area; Skye had busied herself in her computer and had eventually fallen asleep, but Marcus Manderfeld himself had stayed holed up in the cockpit for close to the entire duration of their fight. He had only come down once, apparently to go to the toilet and then to choke down a muffin, before vanishing again to previously unseen parts of the plane.

Elyssa had been around S.H.I.E.L.D. long enough to know what an Agent looks like; the kind of people who appeared to have been born in a suit, never infants, but serious men and woman with a serious gun who rolled off the assembly line in Quantico, Virginia. All with the standard issue face with the ubiquitous square shoulders and squarer chin. Marcus Manderfeld was not one of those Agents.

He was sat in the pilot's chair when she arrived, and though his shoulders tensed with her approach, he did not turn around to greet her. That at least is no longer surprising. He hasn't looked her in the face since she had arrived.

For a moment, Elyssa thought it was her, but the way he acted around Coulson, then Skye, told her otherwise.

At least he had tried to be polite.

"Hello." Elyssa greeted awkwardly when she stepped into the squat little area, sitting in one of the two chairs behind him and sliding the other glass into the cup holder closest to the pilot's own.

He glances at the drink, but not at her. "Good Evening." He replied, looked at the drink again and sent out his free hand. He couldn't reach past the chair to the cup holder; his arms were too short.

Elyssa moved forwards to pick it up again and put into his open palm. Once the cool glass came into contact with the skin of his hand, he clamped his fingers around it firmly and brought it around.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." Wow, this conversation was going downhill fast. Elyssa kicks her legs up on the chair beside her and fiddles with a lock of hair. "So, where are we going?"

He glances in her direction but doesn't turn his head. "Iceland. A little island by the name of Guðbjörn. Skye informed me that the, uh, Premises is located there."

"That's where we'll be staying? Isn't it cold?"

"Not in summer. I don't think. Ironically enough."

He reaches upwards to flick a few switches. Elyssa takes a drink of her red creme soda. "You ever go there before?"

Marcus shakes his head. For a moment, she was convinced that the conversation was a dead end, but he spoke up before she could offer a new subject. "I never really made a habit of getting out of the country."

"Why not?" She knows why, of course; it's written all over his file, but it was the polite thing to say in any instance.

"Let's just say for a... large portion of my childhood a lot of things were an impossibility," Marcus replies softly. "And then there was the... well..."

Elyssa winces. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

Another head shake, and Marcus sighs. "It's not that. Really. Don't go feeling bad. It's just... It can feel abstract, I guess, thinking back. Like it wasn't really me doing it." Suddenly, very suddenly, he laughs. "Part of me wishes they'd never write these things down."

"It doesn't exactly make things comfortable," Elyssa notes with a small amount of amusement. "How are you supposed to look someone in the eye, a complete stranger, when you know already every dirty detail about them?"

Marcus shrugs. "Perhaps continuing on in the happy ignorance of strangers is in order."

Elyssa shakes her head. She wishes. "I don't think that's going to work. We're supposed to be a team."

He makes a noise at the back of his throat. "Don't remind me." He sighs. "I mean, I get it—there's no other reason why I'm here, it's just... the, uh, other Me doesn't quite get along with others."

"The other you?"

"Me, myself and I," Marcus notes, quietly. "S.H.I.E.L.D. calls it the "Omnicompetence Factor"." Oh. Elyssa guesses that it makes sense.

The evidence hardly points to the contrary. There is a long list of incidents on Agent Manderfeld's file.

"That's the thing." He grumbles. "They know more about me than I do, and it wasn't until they had a use for me that they dare disclose it."

Elyssa turns to look at the back of his head. "Does that bother you?"

"Honestly? Yes." Marcus replies. "But I can't... You can't hold these things against people. We'll get nothing d— _what is that_?"

She sits up suddenly.

"What?"

"That."

He leans forwards along the chair and over to the console before him. There is a split second, like a horrifying gasp of tension, when the light that is flashing suddenly turns into a full blown alarm and no sooner than they're given the warning, the whole console shuts off and the plane takes a slow dive.

Marcus slams his hand onto the console, looks up, and his expression drops into one of full-blown fear.

And then, he grits out through clenched teeth: "We've lost the engines."

Elyssa snaps her head towards him, and Marcus inhales sharply. "We've—"

"Lost the engines."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 _"Come on! Come on, come on! Get up!_ _Verdomme, nutteloos stom stuk van afval_ _!"_

Marcus' constant stream of instant cursing through the intercom, despite it being directed to the plane he was fruitlessly trying to pull up and not her, was almost comforting to hear.

Throwing herself down the steps as fast as she can towards the cargo bay, Elyssa tries to move as quickly bearing in mind that the plane was close to a vertical drop by this point. They needed to get rid of the weight, so he could turn the plane. It meant getting rid of the jet stored in the back.

This was the plan that Elyssa told Skye, who was looking more disgruntled than afraid. They both made their way to the cargo bay together.

Getting flung against the wall when the plane tipped further downwards, they had to climb up the ladder rather than down it. Elyssa can't help it; she has to wonder what it's like for him up there—or, well, down there—looking right at the sea.

They didn't have much time.

The cargo bay door opens slowly, but rather than waiting for the proper procedure, they get to work on bringing the jet along towards the door while it was still rolling down. Grabbing hold of the large metal control pad, Skye wraps her arms around the bars of the fence that ran around the footway, trying to keep on her feet as they plummeted.

Elyssa looked along and up, and noticed something wrong. Surely with something as heavy as a small fighter plane, the lift wasn't strong enough to bring it up that sharply. It was struggling.

And, sure enough, the thing jams and refuses to go any higher.

"Skye!" Elyssa warns, and the other woman swears.

What follows is an awkward looking scramble towards the intercom on the wall panel. Her hand slams onto the button, and her voice echoes around the room.

"Manderfeld! We can't get the jet out of the door at this angle, we're going to have to flatten out!"

 _"I'm trying!"_ Comes the hissed, crackling static reply. _"We're dropping too fast, I can't pull up... I, uh. I know! Cut the jet loose on my mark and I'll spin counter-clockwise. The force should, hopefully, pull it out."_

"That'll bash the whole place up!"

 _"If it's as strong as you said it is, it won't matter. Regardless we don't have a choice."_

Skye sighs. "I do hope your right, Legate."

 _"You're telling me!"_

Elyssa looks around and finds a ladder, one that was connected to the small crane that moves cargo around. Scrambling over and through boxes of supplies, she clamps her hands over the rugged metal bars and climbs her way up. The roar of the wind is deafening, and the freezing cold air seemed to cut right through her, but she persevered; by the time she was up there, she knew what it was she was going to try and hit.

She looks towards the dark, in the shadowy corner that crawls towards her. Sending out her hand, she grasps it, feeling the cool pull inside her mind and the tingling not-quite weight.

 _"Are you there?"_

"All most!"

 _"We're running out of time here!"_

Skye looks up from her position on deck. "Evans! Come on!"

Solidifying the shadow she felt in her embrace was always a strange, but not entirely unwanted feeling; she feels curl around her grasp and Elyssa looks towards one of the two mechanical locks on the cargo floor lift. Throwing the smooth disk of solid shadow, it impacts heavily and shatters into nothingness, but the lock buckles, and soon falls apart.

"Now!" She shouts, and Skye must have kept her hand on the intercom because no sooner then she gave the order, the plane takes a sudden sickening turn. Elyssa lets out a surprised scream and tries to hold on, hooking the crook of her elbow around the bars while she tried to ready another shadow disk in her other hand. She wavers, and it misses when she throws it. Skye shouts something illegible. Elyssa tries another throw.

A sharp clank, then a groan, and the jet is pushed outwards by the centrifugal force, smashing bodily into the side and roof of the plane, before tumbling out and getting sucked next to them. Alarm bells go off in Elyssa's head. Don't all objects fall at the same speed?

 _"Can you hear me?"_

"Yeah, we've got you."

 _"I've got manual control and the engines are back on but... but the systems... they're attempting to smash us into the sea, my attempts will be useless. I need one of you to go to Command and Control, go inside the crawlspace under the Ahey it and shut down the power. That's where the problem appears to be coming from."_

"What's the Ahey?"

Skye suddenly looks peeved. "Oh dear god, the AE. The AE! Here, take this radio—you'll need it. Get up there and do as he says. I'll try to get the cargo door closed."

Jumping down off of the ladder, Elyssa grasps the plastic chunky object and throws herself at the nearest wall and into the shadow, feeling something dark and cool flow over her mind and her vision tint into greyscale, as if she had just been thrown into a black and white movie. She reaches across the shadows of the plane, down corridors and under doors, sliding across and around from one shadow to another until she found the crawlspace she was looking for. There were lights in there, however; it was illuminated, so she had to appear from the shadows and grasp the handholds on either side of the trap door.

Setting her feet against the plane floor, she pulls it, and it hisses open. It's cramped. Cramped enough to feel uncomfortable.

Elyssa pressed down on the radio.

"Marcus, what is it I'm looking for?"

No response.

No—...? "Marcus!" Elyssa looks upwards sharply towards nothing, her finger straining on the button, but again, nothing.

Then, something that sounds like a gasp. _"Mhnn?"_

"What is it I'm looking for? Marcus! Are you there?"

 _"M'here... Het is... Ik ben erg moe. U bent op zoek naar het besturingselement. Macht. De macht... Ah Eeh...Hetwordtsteedsmoeilijkomwakkerteblijv—"_

Even if she did know what it was he was saying, part of her feels like it wouldn't be legible; he's slurring. Biting on her lower lip, she looks around frantically until she can see something that looks like a power warning.

It looks close enough, at least. Warning stripes in white and red, and a lever of the same crimson colour. Hoping for the best, she throws up the glass case and pulls it up with a jerk.

A loud, resonant clank. And silence. Elyssa looks upwards hesitantly.

"Did that do it?" She asks.

But there isn't a response.

Backtracking with enough concern to send her heart into a beating frenzy, when it was already hammering away to begin with, Elyssa tries to use the shadows to take her there, but her worry is making her sloppy; she phases out onto the ground near the ladder and has to climb across it herself. The impact leaves her ribs smarting, but that's a secondary feeling alongside the worry festering in her mind.

"Marcus!" she shouts as she opens the door into he cockpit, pressing herself up against the wall to stop herself from falling back out of the room, and reaching for the seats to pull herself along.

Elyssa saw it on the floor, first. Like millions of red flowers blooming, the droplets of blood were the floor, and then when she looked up and around, the same cardinal red was also stained along the front of Marcus' white shirt and dribbling along down his nose. He was slumped, with his head dangling down against his chest, the only thing keeping him upright and against the chair being the straps of his harness.

Heart jumping into the throat, Elyssa grabs the yoke and tries to pull the plane upwards.

"Come on!"

The plane tilts a little. But the sea before here is large and blue and far too close for comfort.

"Come on, come on, _come on_!"

Suddenly, sharply, two bloody hands slam on top of hers. Eyes bright and intense, Marcus rips his head up and sets one foot against the console, pivoting back against the seat as he pulls back on the yoke too. Slowly, with once graceful arc, the plane begins to level out, and then turn upwards.

She hears the splash of water, but just when Elyssa has assumed the worst and closed her eyes, she feels the plane still moving and the whir of the engines powering on interrupted.

And sees through the cockpit window, that they were now moving upwards. The blue before here now as not one of the screen but of the sky instead.

Elyssa looks down towards Marcus, to find that he was looking right at her; not just at her, at her, but _right_ in the eyes.

That wasn't Marcus.

Not quite.

Of course, it was him; the same face, the same everything, but his eyes were different. More intense. And his expression was closed off. There was nothing there. Elyssa was about to say something when he suddenly scrunched his face up, as if in pain, and turned back towards the console, but before he can, he lets out a breath and slumps again.

He's lucky he's short, otherwise his head would have slammed straight into it.

"Hey, woah. Easy there." Elyssa murmurs, setting both of her hands against his chest and pushing him backwards against the seat. Looking straight at him, Elyssa notes the dark hair falling over his pale full face and then the blood streaming down his upper lip and chin. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Slowly, and quite painfully, Marcus glances at her.

"I happened, meisje." He sighs, tone rumbling quietly in his chest, like guilt. "I happened."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

When they land in Guðbjörn, Elyssa is treated to a magnificent looking island with two flashing pale lights indicating the beginning of the runway.

Skye sounds uneasy when she speaks up.

"That airstrip long enough for us?" she asked.

"Most of the military airstrips, soldaten—... I— uh, _soldiers_ , use are at least fourteen thousand feet. Checking ..." He brought his free hand up and pressed one small little button; across the front screen before them, a green line flashed and got smaller, seemingly following the runway line. A number flashed on Marcus' side of the screen. "Well, there we go. Runway length 13,780 feet."

"Should be enough?" Elyssa asked.

"A C-17 like this once landed at a civilian airport in Tampa with a runway no longer than 3,400 feet. That pilot must've hit the brakes pretty hard and that's cutting it as close as it gets."

"No kidding."

Marcus blinks and nods.

None of them had left the cockpit after what had happened. Elyssa and Skye had refused to budge, the latter keeping an eye on Marcus as he slept heavily in the two hours they had on autopilot. He couldn't sleep for much longer, because this version of the autopilot wasn't controlled by the AE and, therefore, was not as 'smart'. Therefore, Marcus, being the one with any experience, had to keep an eye on proceedings—and that meant staying awake.

Not that any of them cared; that machine nearly tried to kill them a few hours ago.

Skye thinks it was a hacking. Since the incident, she's been sat cross-legged on the chair behind them and hasn't yet let up in her frantic typing.

Honestly, though, Elyssa was starting to worry. Not just about Marcus, who after cleaning up with some wet wipes was no longer bloody, but still looked terrible all pale and red-eyed, but she was also worried about the mission—their mission—full stop.

The first day on the job and she nearly died. It's got to be some kind of record.

 _But we are here now_. So... That had to count for something, right? She thought. They _did_ save the plane. And themselves.

Perhaps she wasn't giving herself enough credit.

It takes Marcus a while to bring the plane down and across the runway so they were under the hanger, but when he does and the engines shut off, Elyssa very nearly ran off of the plane. She couldn't wait to get onto solid ground.

"I don't blame you," Skye grumbles. "I'm going to give AC hell for this."

When they got out onto the runway, two females were waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. The first was a short young woman of around her early twenties with blonde hair and grey eyes, and the other was a slightly taller woman, of a different sort of blonde and a serious facade. The pair of them were in some kind of uniform, and looked tired, but alert.

Skye was the first to greet them. "I take it you checked out the training center." She smiles and the taller one laughs.

"It that obvious, mate?" She asks and the smaller one looks back at Elyssa and, then, further along, Marcus.

Turning back to them, Skye waves a hand at the two women. "These are two of the current team. They came here yesterday. Agents Daine Queen and Dr. Kira Elaine Fox, they've been with S.H.I.E.L.D. before."

The taller woman snaps her hand out. "Call me Vixen, mates." She smiles. "This here is Poison Dart..." Her eyes look over them both. "So, what're gonna go call you folks?"

Marcus was looking down at the floor, and wouldn't bring his head up, so Elyssa responded for him. "I'm Elyssa. I guess you'll be calling me Penumbra. This here is Marcus."

"The Legate!" The smaller one pipes up with a toothy grin.

Dr. nFox gives Marcus a once over. "Not one for words, mate?"

"We've had a really, _really_ rough trip." Skye deadpans. "If it wasn't for these two lunatics, we'd be literally sleeping with the fishes tonight."

As if to solidify her statement, Marcus suddenly lets out a half-amused, half-horrified laugh.

* * *

 **[the uniform makes for brotherhood]**

* * *

A/N

Oh dear. Those poor, poor Caterpillers. If you look at the list, you may just figure out who was responsible for that ;)

And here are some translations:

\- **Verdomme,** **nutteloos stom stuk _van_ afval** \- Essentially, Marcus told the plane that it's a piece of stupid trash. I guess when you're plummeting to the sea at five hundred miles an hour, nobody is ever personable.

\- The confusing, long line of gibberish was, essentially, Marcus saying that: yes he is here, and that Elyssa is looking for the power switch. The long list of letters is a scrambled version of "I'm getting very tired, and my head hurts".

\- **Meisje** \- Girl.

\- **Soldaten -** Soldiers.


	5. Teaser: League of Super Evil

**[TEASER]**

 **|‖** тне цпіћіբоѓщ щакеѕ բоя вготћеяћооԁ **‖|** **  
**[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

So for some terrible, absent minded reason, I accidently deleted my entire inbox. The characters that I have so far accepted (aka, everyone on the list), I have copied to a separate document for ease of access purposes, but if you sent anything to me after 17:54 yesterday or before then I cannot guarantee that I have seen it. If you did send me anything before this point recently i.e, that day or the night on the 27th or before, you may need to send it again.

Also; when I return to college on the 7th, I'll be studying A2 Sociology, Politics, Law and Fast-Track English five days a week from seven am to four pm, so editing/posting chapters will now have to wait until the weekends. As much as I do enjoy writing, education will, unfortunately, have to take priority.

This here is not a core chapter per say, it's just a little something to keep me active.

* * *

 **|‖ TEASER ‖|  
** **LEAUGE OF SUPER EVIL**

As soon as the sun begins to rise, Marcus Manderfeld snaps himself into full gear. One second he is asleep, the next, he is thrown suddenly into consciousness with enough urgency to make himself convulse.

But there is no emergency. There is no problem.

Every morning, Manderfeld wakes with the sun. It is a habit that proves to be apparently unbreakable. Even during the darkest moments back home when he couldn't remember his own _name_ , his body was still ready to go at the barest peek of daylight. Today is no exception.

Two cups of some terrifyingly expensive energy drink (6oz of "Pure Zilch" for the first bring around, and then a straight "Double-Loaded" 920 milliliter cup for the sleep-defying adrenaline) and a five minute shower paves the way into his usual routine, which is followed by a Honduran point 5 cigar because he's feeling jumpy, and then a cup of Earl Grey because he donated all of the coffee he found in his quarters to the other team members in a fit of genuine disgust.

After that, because he lacks creative inspiration, he changes into a darker selection of trousers, the blue knitted jumper his sister made him for Sinterklaas, and a pair of brogues he forgot he even owned.

By the time it's quarter past five, Manderfeld has then eaten two pieces of toast, a bowl of cereal, some fancied fruit of dubious organic origin, and stared at his neatly ordered row of medications for a total of twenty minutes before he finally plucked up the courage to swallow them.

Before he left through the door, he's grabbed the laptop he was issued and ignored the handgun in its plastic hard case.

But Manderfeld doesn't leave; something pulled at the back of his mind and he stopped. Hard.

He's forgotten something.

No. Not forgotten to do. Or to use. Or to take. Forgotten to check.

He sent a hand down instinctively against his thigh and felt the small indentation of corners, then something smooth against the fabric of his trousers. The pulling stopped and Manderfeld relaxed. He's got it.

The list that Dr. Christensen had made.

A list of triggers. A list of things Manderfeld should really try to avoid.

He's got it.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Sat on one of the sofas in the main rec room, Skye and Daine watched absently as another episode of League of Super Evil started.

"You know, this show makes me feel like a pickle torpedo in a sea of graham cracker crumbs," Skye said out of nowhere. It makes the other woman frown.

Daine turned her head. "I'll just pretend to know what that means."

"Uncomfortable, camarada. Uncomfortable, but at the same time strangely at peace."

A moment of consideration, and, then: "Do the bad guys work like this in real life?"

Skye thought about that statement. "No, well, not all of them. The real crazy ones do, though. Scorch for example. That man was nuttier than a fruit bar."

"You do like your metaphors."

"Yup."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

From opposite sides of the chessboard, both participants stared hard at the little pieces.

For Menderfeld, playing chess was easy; he's both skilled enough, and experienced enough to give him decent headway for his age. Kira Fox meanwhile is just... well, brilliant for one, and super competitive for two.

If it wasn't chess, Manderfeld might have actually been frightened.

Leaning against a clenched fist, he moved his knight up one square. He thinks he knows where this game is going, but he can't be too sure.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like a baby version of Shia Le Bouf?"

"I beg your pardon?" Manderfeld snaps his head up to find that she is looking right at his face. He looks away instinctively.

From around the corner that led into the kitchen, Elyssa leaned backward into the dining room and considered his face with a long, intense look.

Fox turns to regard her with a lazy arm flail directed in Manderfeld's direction. "See? Don't ya' see it? I see it."

"I really have no idea who this—"

Elyssa narrowed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. "He is cuter than Shia." She then declared. Manderfeld spluttered.

"But I—"

Fox shook her head. "That's not hard. I mean, really. La Beouf sorta' looks like a mouse that was turned into a human by an evil magician."

Menderfeld's mouth remained open for a little longer, and then he clamped it shut, thoroughly both confused and embarrassed.

Pleased with herself, Fox moved forwards a rook and gave him a wink.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

"You know, that dueling is legal in Paraguay as long as both parties are registered blood donors."

Stood in the elevator between floors, Skye gave Manderfeld a look.

"What are you trying to suggest, Legate?"

"Me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Elyssa watched from the other side of the table as Daine pricked her finger.

"So you're diabetic?" She asked.

Daine looked up and nodded frantically. "Yeah, I am. Yup. Why?"

Elyssa shrugged. "I just, I guess it's just so... I don't know... _normal_."

Fox nearly snorted out her drink.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Daine stared open mouthed at the file below her. "Oh, you used to be a chorister? How adorable!"

"I used to be _what_!?" Manderfeld nearly screamed.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

"So what was it like in Afterlife?" Daine asked, putting her textbook on astrophysics down to regard the other woman properly.

Elyssa looked away from the TV screen. "Afterlife?" She replies, and at the blonde's nod, she shrugs. "It was okay, I guess. Though the residents were less than to be desired."

"Yeah?"

"So there was this girl who could light herself on fire..."

Daine pulled a face. "That seems... useless."

"Yup."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Fox watched as Manderfeld sorted out the last of this things. They had a deal; he'd help her with her things if she helped him. It was half three in the afternoon, and they had just finished putting his books away.

She nudged a King James Bible that was sitting on his desk.

"You read this?" She asked. Manderfeld raised both of his eyebrows.

"Honestly? Not really."

"But I thought-"

"I've got the whole thing memorized." He grinned. "If you want, I could recite all of the 66 books that make up the Old and New Testaments."

"Save it for Sunday, John Paul."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

"This is the simulation suit." Coulson waved over at the metal suit suspended between two metal wires. "Most of you will know this, but the idea of building muscle is to exercise it. Most of you, when you all get here, won't be using this as often; you will need endurance, not excessive muscle build up, but for when you do use it, remember that this suit is designed to use the muscle intensely to create microscopic tears in the tissue fibre. Every time you use this, you'll feel the pain one feels in the days after an intense workout, and when the muscle repairs the tears, it builds on itself. This is the process this suit is built to facilitate."

"The devil's own invention." Manderfeld murmurs. Elyssa, who is clutching her bō staff, and Fox both glance at him.

"If you are not vomiting after using this machine," Coulson says then. "You're not trying hard enough."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Lay on the couch with his arm over his face, Manderfeld frowned.

"Grande valse brillante in E-flat major." He very nearly groaned.

Elyssa nodded as she played. "Got it in one."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

"See, I'm not too drunk, I can still take my clothes off."

"I'd rather you didn't," Coulson sighed as he pushed Manderfeld into his quarters. "And Skye and I are going to have a serious talk about team management responsibilities."

* * *

 **[the uniform makes for brotherhood]**

* * *

Like I said, this wasn't going to be a proper chapter, but rather a series of small little segments showing a little team bonding before everything kicks off again. I'll try and get Part Three uploaded by tomorrow night, if possible.

Now time for the fun facts!

\- A big part of Marcus' storyline is that when he was around nineteen/twenty, he suffered a cataphatic side effect of the Omnicompetence Factor, forgetting a large portion of his childhood and adolescence. He has since managed to recall most of it himself, and through other people, but some details may have either been overlooked or simply avoided. Hence his... _surprise_ , to find out he was a chorister at one point.

\- The sheet of triggers is very important. Do remember this.

\- Elyssa's experience in Afterlife will also be very important, because two of our main bad guys are also from Afterlife. Hip Hip Hurray.

\- It is actually one of my biggest dreams to have the cast of AoS watch the League of Super Evil. Seriously.

\- _Grande valse brillante in E-flat major_ is incredibly tedious and I detested having to learn that evil sheet of notes :)

\- Marcus Manderfeld's physical characteristics are based on the actor Michael Angarano (particularly how he is portrayed in the TV series "The Knick"), and it is highly disputed that the actor himself looks like a younger version of Shia Le Bouf. He doesn't all that much, in my opinion, but Civillian disagrees. Go look up the man himself and see if you agree or disagree. Or, if you prefer to imagine Marcus your own way, don't.

Again, for those who sent me anything in the time frame specified above, please do send it again. If it wasn't for you replying to my PM, AsgardianGrizzly, I may have not even noticed my terrible error.

Cheers!


	6. Chapter 1, Part 3: Ballistic Reports

**[THREE]**

 **|‖** тне цпіћіբоѓщ щакеѕ բоя вготћеяћооԁ **‖|** **  
**[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Because I can't fit it all here without ruining the chapter below, I'll add the SERIOUSLY SERIOUS VERY IMPORTANT MESSAGE note at the bottom rather at the top. Just letting y'all know.

* * *

 **|‖ CHAPTER ONE, PART THREE ‖|** **  
BALLISTIC REPORTS**

"Hey, aren't ya' supposed to be training right 'bout now?"

Manderfeld responds to Fox's question absently, tilting his head away from his clenched fist but still unable to tear his eyes away from the screen before him, his distracted left hand hovering uncertainly above the laptop keyboard to his left. He's been sat in Mission Prep all morning, looking over maps, police reports, S.H.I.E.L.D. reports, personnel dossiers, building blueprints and photographs.

In Fox's dignified opinion, it looks like someone went crazy and decided to plant a bomb in the middle of S.H.I.E.L.D's HR department.

But, there appears to be a sense of method to the man's madness; judging by the increasing amount of photographs, post-it notes and trails of red twine attached to the large world map on the wall to their left, he's getting somewhere and getting there _fast_.

Fox largely spent a lot of her time with S.H.I.E.L.D. as a field agent, or in a lab, so the behind-the-scenes of an operation is quite unfamiliar to her, in the sense that she has reaped the efforts of a well-planned operation but has never seen the work up close. Having done so now, well, she can't say she's envious of Manderfeld's position. It looks quite boring.

"I am." He admits, and shifts, straightening up into a more polite position. "Not that I... I mean, I appreciate it, I do. It's just that I have a lot to—" He bolts upright to his somewhat unimpressive full height, mouth agape, and Fox realises with no small amount of displeasure that his gaze had finally just about managed to travel to her face, if only for a split second. "Darn! What happened?"

She presses the bruise under her eye with a hint of nonchalance. "This? Evans managed to get a hit in with that staff of hers. It's nothing."

"You sure about that?" Despite being more relieved by her apparent indifference, he looks even more horrified. Damn. Civilians. She forgot how touché they all could be.

Not that it was a bad thing, per se; Manderfeld was a real nice guy and as sharp as a whip, it's just that he's not on S.H.I.E.L.D's regular level and sometimes, being here in particular, it's hard to remember that. A black eye, while he finds it both surprising and shocking, is nothing where she comes from.

It just shows how unadjusted they still all are.

"Yeah." Fox nods and collapses down on the chair to his far right. Manderfeld, after a moment, sits back down too and instantly starts typing away. Leaning against his elbow, he presses his fist up against his mouth. She frowns. "So who are we looking for again?"

Manderfeld waves towards one of the files on one side of the table. "Depends on one's intention." He states. "There is a woman by the name of Olivia Anderson whom Director Coulson wishes for us to recruit, and then there is another woman who runs a highly expensive smuggling ring that Director Coulson wishes for us to apprehend. Choose your pick."

"The smuggler?" Fox frowns at the, admittedly small, file they have. "Isn't that the one they call the Sapphire Angel?"

"Eeh. That's the one," Manderfeld replies gently and sighs. He leans back on his chair and rubs his face. "This isn't like any normal smuggling ring. We suspect it's hidden behind a legitimate courier company, but with hundreds, thousands of similar companies within the US alone it's... _difficult_ , to try and pinpoint an exact cover without blowing our own in the process. Not to mention that for all extensive purposes, it's not a smuggling ring that takes on regular shipments. Kree artefacts. HYDRA contraband. Unknown items of Asgardian origin..." He waves a hand at the world map for emphasis. "If it's practically unheard of and on S.H.I.E.L.D's radar, they specialise in moving it."

"So what have you got in mind?" Fox stares at him from across the table. He's got to have something. Marcus Manderfeld is an extraordinarily intelligent man. Too intelligent to stare at this puzzle for the better part of two days and come up with nothing. With or without the Other Marcus.

That's what they have started calling it, now. The "Omnicompetence Factor" has been found to be a... discomforting term to use to Manderfeld's face. So they call it the Other Marcus.

 _Alle_ _beetjes helpen_ , as his people might say.

And, as it turns out, he hasn't. The man has actually got something.

"Alle goede dingen bestaan in drieen. All good things come in threes, and in this case, I uh, I guess the sentiment is not far off." With a tap of the keyboard, several pieces of information move up onto the screen at the head of the table. "Three separate events; a sighting of a supposed HYDRA operative in Utah, the transfer of munitions to a depot in France, and the murder of three policemen who were sent to investigate reports of gang activity in Rockland. I did some snooping and found that, for the most part, they have very similar characteristics. It's all very fine. Little details. Particular shipping routes. Particular days and times."

He stands up and starts pacing, slightly hunched forwards and waving a pen up and down around between two fingers as he talked.

"As for the men who died, I pulled up the ballistic reports from the case and found that they matched the same make and calibre as found in the cases of fifteen S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent operatives and twenty-six police murders, _all_ within connection of gang activity investigation." Manderfeld turns sharply. "I'm surprised that I even found the latter; at first glance it seems... ordinary. Gun crime in America is not exactly uncommon, but there was one thing, something I hadn't realised before."

"Yeah?" Fox is leaning against the table by this point.

"According to the ballistic reports I set aside with such characteristics, in every shooting there is the same specialised 9mm calibre, but no more than ten bullets being fired per handgun. Sometimes there are more, but the large majority have ten or less, so what I summarised was that these handguns come from a place where there is a magazine capacity restriction." Running a hand over his hair, he indicated to a number of reports on the screen. "The firefights that lasted the longest, where there had been an actual fight rather than a straight up murder, all showed these signs. Now, there are a lot of states with those. California, Colorado, Connecticut, Hawaii, Maryland, Massachusetts, New Jersey and New York all have them, as well as certain counties. It's finding out where exactly."

Manderfeld regards the map again.

"I cross-referenced that with some other data, such as the routes used during legitimate trading and the appearance of artefacts, and those transfers we were made aware of, and it became evident that the larger percentage of them took place in the West." Evidently frustrated, he leans against his knuckles in thought. "What I don't entirely understand is, why didn't they change the parts so they could use a full magazine?"

"Too conspicuous, methinks," Fox replies. She knows how people like this work. "Like with phones, Criminals're gonna go chop and change firearms to ensure that nothing comes back to them. It'll probably be the same here."

"So they purchase their firearms from a specific area and just replace them immediately afterwards." He stops and grins. "That goes in favour, actually. How many shipping companies frequently purchase one type of firearm with certain restrictions, I wonder?"

Fox sits up sharply. "You're gonna find out."

Manderfeld breaks out into a grin.

"I think I am."

"I find your observations to be not only astute but correct, brother." A soft accent calls from the other side of the room. "I do hope that I can be of some assistance to your current investigation."

The two team members both turn sharply to see that on top of the stairs, an oriental, athletic looking young man stands wearing nothing but a black oriental shirt, white harem pants, a sword that looks to sharp for comfort and an air of mischief at least a mile wide. He walks down the stairs barefoot when, after allowing Fox to pass him, Manderfeld approaches the other side of the table to greet the newcomer.

Skye appears from behind the doorway and follows on after the barefoot man, and is the first to introduce them, per custom. She bounds down the stairs past the newcomer and indicates towards Manderfeld and Fox with a flat palm.

"Right, these are just two of our current team. Good Morning to you both. Agent Manderfeld, our resident tactical and navigational specialist and Dr. Fox, one of our field agents. This here is one of our new auxiliaries, Chen Ki-Mei, codename Avarice."

"Please, I insist you call me Ki." The young man bows his head slightly, and while flattening the front of his shirt with his left hand, Manderfeld seems to consider Ki's entire silhouette for a moment or two before smiling. Much to Fox's surprise, the newcomer doesn't seem too taken aback by Manderfeld's behaviour. But then, in many countries of the East, eye contact is disrespectful. Even then, it was hard to tell on which side this man fell; he was almost impossible to read. His face did not change.

"Everyone calls me Marcus," Manderfeld offers out his hand, which Ki takes. "Feel free yourself."

After, Fox sends out her hand too. "Welcome to the Circus, mate." She grins, and then regards Marcus with a subtle nod. "Looks like we need to go back inside the tent."

Manderfeld nods, and indicates for Fox and Skye to pass him, before following on beside Ki and making his way back to the head of the table where he was previously working.

Skye nods at the paper strewn madness around her and gives Manderfeld an appraising look. "You've done some good work here." He smiles and looks down at his feet. "So what have you got so far?"

Both Manderfeld and Fox burst into explanations, during which Elyssa and Daine arrive and another round of introductions is given before they continue on. They explain the maps, the killings, the bullets and the geographic deductions. They show them the photographs. Reference reports and files.

"We'll need more data on the illegal activities around the Colorado area. I've got a feeling that is where they're at," Manderfeld notes as he stares down at his shoes. "Until then we can't start the investigation properly. I mean, well... They've, uh, y'know, killed agents before."

"I would be more than willing to provide you all with any information you may require," Ki replies. "I have many contacts around the Colorado area."

Manderfeld looks at Skye for direction, and when the woman nods, he gestures with his arms as if it to say 'well go ahead'.

"And the nature of these contacts are...?" Elyssa reads Fox's expression perfectly from where she is stood.

But Ki doesn't seem to react. At least outwardly. "For my contact's confidentiality, I find it most regrettable that I cannot answer your question." He looks at Manderfeld. "For a price I am most willing to contact them."

Manderfeld glances at Skye, clearly off put. "Uh, _price_? Well... I..."

Ki sighs. "It was an attempt at humour, I assure you that I will not ask anything of you." He claps his hands together and turns towards Skye. "Where might I find a telephone?"

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

With Ki working his magic with his contacts, all it currently left was to track down Miss Olivia Anderson.

Because Manderfeld, Elyssa and Skye all refused to board the Praetorian until whatever issue it was having became fixed for certainty, in order to get to New York they had to travel in the Quinjet.

"If I crash," Manderfeld told Fox as they both boarded into the cramped space. "It's because the Other Me hasn't been paying attention."

Fox gave him a glance. He looked incredibly uncomfortable in his new uniform; a plain dark UBACS Shirt, concussive protection armour, stiff trousers, calf high boots and patrol cap. She'll admit, he looks _okay_ in a uniform, but it doesn't feel like he belongs in one. He seemed gawky and awkward. Her own armour in comparison moves like a second skin.

Manderfeld tore off the cap as he settles himself in the pilot's chair. "What I don't understand is," he mutters as he starts the Quinjet up. "If we're going to try and find a kid who is clearly distressed after a pretty traumatic incident, why are we dressed like we are?"

Smirking as she crashes into the chair next to him, Fox rolls her eyes. "Don't be like that." She admonishes. "Y'all couldn't frighten an infant."

"I do hope that was a compliment, Dr. Fox."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Having taken off at 16:11, they landed in New York at 04:00 the same day. This admittedly caused more problems for Manderfeld then it did Fox, but seeing as they would be likely spending the night in a hotel room, he managed.

And practically rejoiced when they changed back into plainclothes.

Now at least, just after ten in the morning, they sit in a Bently W12 and watch as a short young woman with ombré black to grey hair and sunglasses walks into the cafe they were watching.

"Wait until she has sat down," Fox murmurs. "You said Skye was worried about anything happening?"

"She thinks that whoever hacked the plane might be capable of hacking the Jet too. Just be on your guard." He grimaces. "I hope they don't. This is a nice car."

Fox sighs and shakes her head at him, though with a subtle amount of amusement. "Boys will be boys, hm?"

"I'm just saying is all."

She slaps him on the knee. "Come on, she's got a coffee. You drink?"

"I gave you three bags because I _hated_ it." Manderfeld frowns.

" _Fine_ , I'll order you a flippin' fruit juice or something."

When they walk in, they don't go to her straight away, but rather stand at the counter as a greasy looking kid serves them a coffee, earl grey and two bacon and sausage sandwiches. Manderfeld stares at them as they were presented, with something that looks close to displeasure.

"Y'know if there is one thing I miss about the Nederlands, it's that breakfasts tended to be made properly. I mean, it looks... _lovely_ , but it's not exactly homely. Or healthy."

"You cook?"

Manderfeld shrugs. "A little," he admits. "Though Pa often did. One of my favourites was when he went camping, actually. Mountain Man Breakfast. A pound of hog, shredded hash browns, a dozen eggs, garlic, onion, pepper and cheese. Bake at 350° until eggs set firm and then add the cheese as you like."

"Hn, breakfast meats aren't all that bad. Though I'm going to have to work this off."

"Naw, it's nothing. By the time you've starved on another twelve-hour flight, you'll be fine."

Fox glances over her shoulder as the drinks came. Manderfeld pays the bill and follows her lead slowly, keeping an eye on the rest of the cafe. Pretty deserted. Fox guessed that it was an intentional move on Anderson's part... If she knew it or not.

This very same Miss. Anderson very nearly bolts when they first sit down.

"I wouldn't recommend that," Fox murmurs, trying to keep her tone and pronunciation as formal as possible and motions to the girl's plate. "You haven't finished, and this place isn't exactly cheap. Now we don't want anyone to overhear us, so let's just be nice and quiet and pretend like we know each other, okay?"

"Okee." Manderfeld grins and leans forwards against his elbows.

Much to their pleasure, she doesn't start running, instead she tries to stare them down. Though the way she presses herself back against the booth sort of ruins the effect a little.

"What do you want from me?" She breathes, the Slovakian undertones stressing faintly. Yep. This is her.

Manderfeld takes a terrific bite out of his sandwich. Fox regards Anderson with a small smile. "We won't lie to you so now, so perhaps, you will not lie to us. We know what you can do and we were hoping that you might want to help us."

"And by help you..."

She looks sceptical. Understandable.

Fox breathes in. Perhaps just straight up honesty will win out after all; Manderfeld had already made it clear that was the only route he was taking. "We want you to join S.H.I.E.L.D. as a member of the Caterpillar program," she explains. "To join a team of agents like me and Manderfeld here who are just like you."

Anderson's silence wasn't one of disinterest. Good.

"M'not gonna lie, it'll be tough, but we're trying to fight the good fight here." She regarded Manderfeld with a head tilt. "This guy is trying to stop armed criminals from shooting down cops and smuggling illegally. I once took down a Colombian terror cell. And we want you to do something good yourself." She looked more distrustful at this revelation. Fox glanced at Manderfeld in worry, but he's staring right at Anderson and doesn't notice. He's not looking at her face, but it's pretty close. Close enough. "I know you have a lot of reasons to not trust the government; their record according to people like us is quite poor, but S.H.I.E.L.D. understands. We understand."

Anderson is fiddling with her fork. "It will be dangerous?"

"Highly likely."

She shakes her head suddenly. "I can't. I—"

When she makes to stand up, Fox moves up before she does and stands at the side of the table. The girl's eyes widen. "Please, I don't want anything to do with the government. Just leave me alone!"

The fork shifts against the tabletop, and Fox winces. " _Wait_ _—_ "

With a surprising amount of speed, Manderfeld suddenly reaches across the table and grabs the girl's hands. Direct eye-contact now.

"Look, those policemen who attacked you?" Manderfeld frowns, and Fox sits down next to him again. She wants to know what on Earth it is he is playing at here. He'll lose it if he keeps this up. "They don't understand. Those classmates who tormented you? They don't understand. Your parents? I'm willing to be that they did not understand, did they?"

He asks this gently, but from under the table, his knee is bouncing up and down uncontrollably. Like a duck. All control on the upper half, but kicking and kicking under the water.

The girl looks away, and Fox just about hears the slight exhale of relief from Manderfeld. "How do you know those... those things...?"

"Kid, it's written all over your face." Manderfeld just about manages to laugh, though pathetically. "Don't you want to go somewhere, be with people, where you don't have to hide? To pretend? In this team, we are what we are, and nothing, _nothing_ less. And that's okay." He glances at Fox for instruction. She just lets him continue on. If he can do this without freaking out...

If not...

She wonders if the sedative in her bag will even work. It hasn't seemed to before, unless it is self-administered.

Manderfeld offers her a genuine smile. "What you can do is incredible, and you're not the only one. We're all outcasts here. Feared, despised, all because we're different. That's how the word works. And perhaps one day, I prey it will be better, but right now..." He lets go of her hands. Nothing shifts. "We can only try to make a difference. Because the world needs heroes right now."

"I'll have a... a..."

"Family?" Manderfeld hesitates. Clearly, it's not the word he would use. "To some, yes. There are few people your age, some older, and then there are others. Others we have yet to reach out to."

Anderson breathes in and rests her hands against the tabletop. "So, what do I have to do?"

"Right now?" Fox shrugs idly. "You don't have to do anything with us. No trickery, no pretending. We need _you_."

There is a long moment of consideration, during which both Manderfeld and Fox continue on with their breakfast as if nothing at all had been happening a moment or two earlier. Fox is just about to prompt for a response when Manderfeld suddenly sits bolt upright, his head titled to the left ever so slightly.

"What is it?"

"I... Just get the girl." His hands spasm rapidly, and for a moment it looks like he's going to suddenly lurch forward and throw up, but he doesn't. The convulse is over no sooner then it started, and he smooths out into a tense, through almost sure posture. He rolls his head, easing out the kinks in his neck.

"What?" Fox murmurs, alarmed.

"Get. The. Girl." He snaps his head towards her.

And here, right now, Fox is no longer faced with the same Manderfeld she was speaking with three minutes earlier. There's no warning; no real struggling, just a quick seamless swap between the easy going fellow and the far deadlier, psychopathic one. Aside from the face and the relenting force behind his eyes, the only real difference is his accent. It's clipped, far older.

"Three hostiles. Seven O'clock. Two men, one woman. Uncertain affiliation."

A jerk of the head.

"Cover her. I will require your rifle."

And with that, he reaches into his pocket and pulls his dark blue balaclava over his head, and the room bursts into noise as three automatic weapons all suddenly open fire at once.

* * *

 **[the uniform makes for brotherhood]**

* * *

Before we get started: _Alle beetjes helpen_ \- Every little helps. Not only the slogan for TESCO, but a saying too.

HERE IS THE SERIOUSLY SERIOUS VERY IMPORTANT MESSAGE:

I get a lot of character submissions, some of them I cannot take, some of them I can; the list filled up at an alarming rate, and its in a way regrettable because while I get to write about some incredible characters, there are plenty more of them that I cannot.

So me, Civillian and Faulkner all threw some ideas at one another and came up with a plan. It's known as the _**Cameo List**_.

The characters that feature on this list are not specific main characters, but a rather minor, though no less important, characters that will feature occasionally through the storyline, and will eventually (once the story is complete) feature in their own little mini-episodes.

I accept characters onto the Cameo List for **two reasons :**

 **A,** they are characters who have been submitted before, but I feel wouldn't fit the storyline to my ( _WOW_ , hear me roar mere mortals) exact planning and standards. This type are often then not referred to here as **"Endgame Characters"** , who are too powerful for the regular characters to defeat/associate with without breaking the cannon or storyline world, and will therefore be worked with afterwards in a particular fashion once the storyline is complete. This allows me to include them at a later date without breaking up the storyline too much.

 **B,** they are characters who have been submitted _after_ the original list was completed, but I find that they are in themselves exceptional, and that the storyline itself would benefit from them being included. This type are referred to as **"Additional Extras"**. They may be hired by the good guys or the bad, and they will be referenced periodically, but they will only directly impact the storyline in their own mini-episode after the storyline is complete.

The mini-episode will be a lot like Agents of Shield in real life; one bad guy / one event, and they all work together to stop it or whatever. Perhaps three to five chapters in length, perhaps less. A finalised set up will be presented at a later date.

This has to be stressed: The characters on this list **ARE** part of the overall storyline. Eagle-eyed readers will see them crop up now and again, referenced occasionally by deeds they have committed while the main storyline is taking place. They just can't feature heavily like normal characters because of the reasons described above. One day, they will. Right now I can only prioritise, and get creative while doing so.

I hope y'all understand.

The Norsemungandr,  
Over and Out.


	7. Chapter 1, Part 4: Walter N' Jesse

**[FOUR]**

 **|‖** тне цпіћіբоѓщ щакеѕ բоя вготћеяћооԁ **‖|** **  
**[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **OKAY.**

WARNING for Violence here. It's Marcus' Other Him, you should expect some gruesome scenes.

Regardless. Big chapter here. Sorry for the lack of updates, but UCAS and a throat infection is getting in the way of productivity. Blegh. Hope y'all enjoy.

* * *

 **|‖ CHAPTER ONE, PART FOUR ‖|** **  
WALTER AND JESSE**

There is no rhythm with the Omnicompetence Factor.

Just method.

It learns from experience: Joyce Carol Oates, On Boxing. Ang Lee's Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. The 36th Chamber of Shaolin. Hardest Game by Hugh McIlvanney. Championship Streetfighting by Ned Beaumont. WWE. Ringside by Budd Schulberg. Karate-Do: My Way of Life by Gichin Funakoshi. The Art of War by Sun Tzu. A Book of Five Rings: The Classic Guide to Strategy by Miyamoto Musashi. Living the Martial Way: A Manual for the Way of Modern Warrior Should Think by Forrest E. Morgan. The Matrix. Krav Maga: An essential guide to the renowned method for fitness and self-defence by David Kahn. Fighting Fit: Complete SAS Fitness Training Handbook by Adrian Weale. And yes, a small amount of Jackie Chan.

A few examples.

Position determines one's tactical advantage. Jerking his head, Manderfeld jumps up and presses his boots against the seat below him. As he rolls backwards, his fingers grip the slimy red fake-leather as the rest of his weight vaults up and over the booth and towards his opponents. Bullets hammer into the roof beyond, and he throws himself towards the floor in a tight roll; snapping back onto his feet and moves quickly to the dead side—the superior and dominant position relative to his closest opponent.

Four meters in two seconds; two seconds, and the man closest to him is running out of ammunition.

Manderfeld arcs swiftly double bent under the spew of bullets from the attacker's rifle and sends his hand up against the barrel, propelling the front end of the sidearm upwards and away as he advances with a sharp front kick. The impact of his boot has the male screaming out in agony, and with one rifle essentially rendered ineffective, Agent Fox comes in from behind and fires off a few rounds of her own pistol, her other arm wrapped around the girl who she is half-pulling, half-leading away across the room and under another table close to the door.

Yanking the rifle out from the man's grip, Manderfeld then turns on his heels sideways and brings the rifle down across his chest, and then under his other arm. He slams the butt of it straight into the man's gut with a high swing when he finally turns around again. Hard enough to give him the crack of ribs. Hard enough, to crush anything under those ribs.

Done.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

His cell door opens with a dull squeak.

Slowly, Terrence Mensah looks up from the floor beside his feet, half expecting the same S.H.I.E.L.D. guard with the same S.H.I.E.L.D uniform and the same S.H.I.E.L.D. issue gun to be standing in the doorway with his lunch.

But, instead of the same S.H.I.E.L.D. goon, he's instead faced with three of them. Two males and a female.

Terrence leans further back on his bed, the bands around his wrists stopping what he wants to do instinctively, so desperately. The woman gives him something that looks to be a pitying look at the sight.

"That looks uncomfortable." She mutters and the look of pity morphs into something akin to a grin and she moves into his cell with an air of pointed enthusiasm. "Your regular guard stepped out for, well, ever. We've come to pick you up."

That makes him think, and for a moment, Terrence allows his expression to change to that of shock. Is he getting out?

"Why?"

"You remember that guy in the suit who came to speak with you awhile ago?" Terrence thinks back. There have been a lot of men in suits. "The one who talked about joining a team of people with powers like you?"

Oh. Terrence slumps. He remembers that joker. "Yes." He sighs, impatient. He's heard all sorts of bullshit recently, but that tops the list. It was just another ruse to get him to give up his old friend's names...

Right?

"Well, we're three parts of that team. You're part four. Part five, six and seven are out somewhere, and part eight and nine are probably watching cartoons back in the plane. There's another two, but we're having trouble tracking those." The woman lights up, eyebrows rising. "I'm Skye, the agent your last visitor talked about. This here is Artyom," she waves a hand at the bloke on her left, who looks completely identical to that of the bloke on her right, aside from the slight difference in facial hair. "And the other one is Andrei."

'Andrei', lets out a low noise at the back of his throat. 'Artyom' scowls, and regards Skye with an immensely peeved look.

"I, am Andrei," ... ' _Andrei_ ', says, and nudges his chin at the male on the right. " _That_ is Artyom."

Skye's expression drops and she sighs, hard. She then spins and faces off 'Andrei'.

"Look," she sighs. "I'm trying, okay? I've got like, nine new faces to try and memorise here. Cut me a break." Something seems to crop up in her mind, however, because she turns back to Terrence with a small grin. "Actually, cut _him_ a break. He needs to get those bonds off if he's going to be any use to us."

Terrence's eyes widen as the man turns and walks towards him with a knife. "You're breaking me out?"

"Not just you." Skye smiles. "Tom n' Jerry here needed a hand too."

A grunt from the man cutting him free. "That is not our names."

"Spy vs. Spy?"

"No."

"Batman and Robin?"

"Absolutely not."

"Burke and Hyde?"

"No—"

"Cassidy and the Sundance Kid?"

"No!"

Skye sighs, disappointed. "You're no fun at all." She turns to the other one at her side. "What about you, Jesse?"

Terrence's bonds are cut loose and for the first time in what feels like years, he can feel his powers returning in full force. Andrei lets out a growl. "His name—"

"Shut up, Walter." Skye calls, cheerfully. "Come on team, we're ditching this dump."

And with that, she's grabbing... Terrence frowns... _Artyom's_ hand and pulling him out the door. Andrei follows her slowly, and Terrence...

Terrence sits there for a moment or two, blinks and decides to follow on. Hell, anything's got to be better than another round of that God-awful watery prison mush.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

It looked like a Jackie Chan movie at high speed. Olivia couldn't help looking, even when she was forced under the table. There were firsts and feet striking from every angle as Marcus, the guy who seemed quite nice and chill only a few moments ago, pressed his response. One of the bigger ones, who dwarfed the smaller agent by at least a whole foot at least responded in earnest. He dropped his rifle for the favour of meeting Marcus dead on.

A mistake, she would later recall, but right now, Olivia was frozen with the scene before her. It left Fox, the woman beside her, to suppress the other attacker with the remaining rifle with her pistol while Marcus and the big guy slugged it out.

The bigger one tried to attack, but each and every blow was blocked by a jerky, effortless kind of speed that seemed unnatural. Marcus' face was impassive as he suddenly reared forwards again. His fists were everywhere, taking the bigger man apart. For every attack the big man blocks, five more seem to hit their target until—yes, the guy falls, panting on the ground and his face streaked three different types of bloody.

Calmly, systematically, Marcus braces himself, adjusts his footing and brings his leg back-

Olivia looks away just in time to see him step over the, suddenly prone, man and find his remaining target with foreboding ease.

"Come on," Fox grabbed her arm again and pulled her up. "We need to go, _now_."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

As soon as they're in Command and Control, it's a series of crazy introductions.

"Right!" Skye bounces into the room and flings a disgruntled looking Artyom towards an equally confused looking Elyssa. "Andrei, this is Elyssa. Elyssa, Andrei— no, wait, _Artyom_. Artyom. This is Artyom, that's Andrei— Sorry, Walter. Elyssa _this_ is Artyom. The scowling one is Andrei."

She points at Terrence.

"That's Terrence. Elyssa, meet Terrence. Terrence, meet Elyssa, and also—"

She crosses the room and grabs Diane out from one of the chairs, who was at listening to some form of music player and hadn't heard them come in.

"This here is Diane. Diane, this is Andrei and Artyom, and this here is Terrence." Skye then turns and faces off Diane. "Where's Ki?"

The door to their left opens and a serious looking young man enters with his hands pressed together. "I am here,"

"Ki!" Skye nearly screams. "I want you to meet Artyom, Andrei and Terrence."

Artyom, who was stood closest to Ki, extends his hand meekly. Ki takes it, unblinking. "It is an utmost pleasure to make your acquaintance, Artyom."

"See!" Andrei roars. "He understands. He sees the difference!"

Skye pulls a face. "Ki doesn't count. He's cheating."

Ki looks at back her, eyebrows raised. "I fail to see how—"

"Okay!" Diane claps her hands together. Everyone turns towards her, expectant. She frowns. "Can we do that again? I didn't quite get everything."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Sliding across the floor, Manderfeld dodged the stream of bullets only barely.

One of them skimmed the top of his balaclava—he felt the fabric rip apart and the skin tear.

The rifle must jam—or the woman is just too put off to shoot him straight at this distance, because she grabbed the rifle and used it to hurl a frustration-fuelled bomb at her approaching rival.

Manderfeld saw this, however. Like this. Here. He sees everything. While his body ached, limbs shaking and becoming harder to manoeuvre, his mind was sharp. He saw the change of footing. The flare of the nostrils as they went in. The faint arc of the elbow. In one graceful, fluid motion Manderfeld dipped and moved in a clockwise manner. This allowed him to duck under the woman's meteoric right and then immediately pop back up on the outside of her swing, in a prime position to strike.

It went quickly after that. Staggering after the flailing attacker, Manderfeld slammed both his hands on the pair of booths on either side of him and with the powerful lunge of broadening shoulders, stretching bones and hardening flesh, he threw most of his body weight upwards, kicking his legs up and jamming his boots into the small of the attacker's back, connecting hard and sure.

The attacker made no noise. She just panicked for a few seconds as she was shoved into and through the window and into the alleyway.

Manderfeld did not wait—he's retreating, the part of him that is slowing inching his way back into consciousness gasping in surprise and pain. He got hit. Somewhere.

Somewhere.

The sunlight burns his eyes when he storms through the back door, pushing away screaming civilians and thundering down the alleyway towards the main road where they had parked.

He almost bought it, there. No sooner then he's out into the open, bullets fly through the air and he throws himself down against the asphalt, falling hard and heavy as he scrambled behind the nearest car and into cover.

An overturned bus that blocked the expanse of the street. Something of a barricade. He could see at least six from his position, one of them carrying what looked to be either rifles or machine guns.

Something presses against his foot, and he looks down to see that Fox had slid her rifle across the expanse of the street from her position near the car. There was a knife and the pistol, too.

Excellent.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Skye gets the word in first. "Oh God!" She groans, setting her laptop that was previously on her knee onto the table. "Andrei! Turn this plane around, we're heading to New York!"

Diane frowns. "What? Why?"

"Manderfeld and Fox are in trouble."

Elyssa sets her mouth into a line and looks thoroughly amused. " _Again_?"

"Is this becoming a thing, or...?" Diane looks back at Elyssa.

Elyssa blinks. "New York, or just us in general?"

"Us."

Ki, sat on his chair legs folded and inspecting a file upon his lap, doesn't look up when he speaks. "I thoroughly expect so, sister."

Skye hums under her breath. "Ready to kick some ass, Jesse?" She asks of Artyom.

Artyom grins.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Fox meanwhile knelt behind the rear end of a wrecked automobile. Bringing her rifle up, she tracks one of the attackers along the top of the bus. Three on the top, the three on the ground below them.

Manderfeld had seemly decided that it was the latter three that he was tackling. He followed her lead, ducking behind a car further along the street and pausing to have a think.

Or well, as long as it takes for the freaky psychopath currently joyriding inside his brain to think, anyway. For Fox, it felt only like a few seconds before he had planned out his entire attack.

The Legate suddenly moved, hurdling to his feet and sprinting perpendicular to them, his pistol raised up at the three attackers, aimed towards the one in the middle. Without hesitation, he fired and pretty much on cue, they followed. The street exploded with noise. Pistol jerking, he moved closer to the attacker before him, who was unnerved, clearly, that he was running right at her. Without warning, he lunged the knife straight into her shoulder and she screamed out with pure, primal pain. Manderfeld meanwhile appeared to ignore this, still firing at the attacker further along, who now decided that it wasn't safe and ducked behind a nearby half wall.

Spinning her around, the Legate uses her as a form of human shield, turning up to fire at the ones up on top of the bus.

Fox adjusts her aim towards the one that had the best shot at Manderfeld and fired, the bullet catching the attacker right between the collarbones. He screams out, hand flying to grasp at the bloodied skin and torn muscle, feet kicking out. He falls over the side and out of view.

His magazine having run out, Manderfeld wordlessly slams it back into its holster, grabbing the rifle that was pushed over his shoulder, hanging by it's strap and raising it, aiming for the attacker closest to him.

The Legate fires once, but it misses. Luckily, the attacker isn't the smartest thing on the planet and he sprawls across the ground, rolling out of the way of the burst.

Fox takes advantage and fires, the bullet cutting straight through his temple.

The body twitches for a few seconds and Manderfeld, thankful for it being taken care of, slams his hand up towards one of the attackers up on the bus, sending off three shots in quick succession. It meets home and the attacker suffers a very splattery end, chunks of skull, blood and brain matter spraying everywhere.

It's at this point that the attacker he was holding was starting to fuss. Spinning around, Manderfeld puts his back towards the attackers and jerks her bodily behind the nearest car and ducks his head.

Fox doesn't see what happens next because he's behind the trunk of the car in front of her, but she hears his rifle fire off twice. When gets back up into the fight, running into the street and firing off at the hip, he's alone.

Backpedalling fast, he ran backwards towards Fox and was seemingly set on going further, but he changed his mind at the last minute. Skidding to a violent halt, boots kicking up asphalt as he takes cover behind another car, he uses the force to swing his assault rifle around on its strap, the shortness of the fabric it seems deliberate, for it slams straight into his arms again. Fox inserts another magazine into her rifle and moves upwards again, finger pressing against the trigger as she fires at another round of the attacker's on the bus.

The man ducked at the last minute and fired back, making Fox duck back down again. To give her time, Manderfeld fired blind over the top of the car.

Fox moves up again and fires, catching one in the leg. He's quickly replaced by two others who come in from another side street.

Crap. Who _were_ these guys?!

"Shit, mate they're coming at us!" She snarls and turns towards him, Manderfeld looks back at her just long enough for her to identify the dark look spread across his features.

"Good."

Moving away from his cover, Manderfeld seemingly decides on taking on the two closest to him on his side and Fox moves up against her own cover, getting ready to pop up and unleash hell.

However, that would have to wait, because what came next completely made her pause.

If she cared for such sentimental bullshit, she'd say it was poetry in motion. Manderfeld suddenly vaulted over the car he was using as cover, twisting in mid-air like a diver. A tongue of flame erupted from the assault rifle at his hip and the first attacker staggered backwards, blood and viscera splatting across the street just behind him. He landed close to the other raider and with a snarl, snapped a kick at her. The crunch of bone and the sickening noise that a limp body made when it finally landed were clear as day to Fox. When Manderfeld pirouetted and fired again at the two remaining attackers, he overbalanced and fell down, crawling to cover as bullets hailed around him.

Ignoring the way worry wraps around her chest as she pops up again, she zeros in on the attacker furthest towards the left and fires.

The bullet hits him once on the arm and he spins around with a shout, so she fires again, thrice. Two of them hit his chest and he staggers back, shrapnel flying everywhere as he fires.

His counterpart tries to find where Fox was hiding, but he doesn't get the chance. By the time he even has a good idea, Fox has fired off four shots and his corpse is left lying behind the mailbox he was using as cover.

Without thinking, Fox moves upwards, checking her corners and surroundings as she half jogs over towards where Manderfeld had fallen. She finds him sprawled over the curb, faintly more pale and sickly then he looked before the fight, but with a scowl upon his face and propped up on his elbows. He deflates when he realises it's her and drops his handgun.

"Come on, we've got to get out of here." She calls, and extends her hand.

They do indeedy. She glances over the bus to see the blue and red of cop lights, and the wail of sirens was getting louder by the second.

Fox stares him for a few moments, surprised. "You decimated them."

Manderfeld shakes his head sharply, and for a moment, the real him just about manages to break through.

"Don't remind me."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

"If he rips my head off, Coulson. I'll rip off your's first."

"Dully noted."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

They've got into the car and are hurtling down the highway at a speed of at least a hundred or so miles per hour by the time any of them can afford to relax.

Or, Fox and Olivia have some capacity to relax; Marcus wasn't in a good enough shape to afford such a luxury.

"Keep a hand on his pulse and keep tabs on his breathing for me," Fox had told her as she crawled into the driver's seat. Olivia was in the seat behind it, with Manderfeld stretched out on all the others with his head on her knees so she could keep his head up and his airway clear. Marcus himself did not protest or otherwise say anything in regards to their situation. He collapsed just before they got into the car and hasn't muttered a word or even blinked since.

He was clearly in pain; every time he moved or was jostled, his expression contorted, and he was clenching and unclenching his fists constantly, but there were no words.

"Is he going to be okay?" Olivia asks when they appear to be in the clear.

Fox glances through the rear-view mirror. "Honestly? I don't know. As long as he's still breathing he should be okay. We'll get him a doctor or something when we arrive."

There was a fair amount of blood, but Olivia is not too sure how much of it was actually his. He looked tired. He looked felt sore. That much she defiantly knew. She's seen kids back at her old school get a good beating and look the same. Only, those giving out the bruises were generally just hormone hyped jocks, not armed criminals.

Part of her is screaming at herself from getting caught up in all of this, but another is immensely grateful.

If it wasn't for these two, what might have happened if those people came in?

Memories of school flashed through her mind. The screaming. The cops.

She sets her free hand on Marcus' shoulder and squeezes in wordless thank you.

For a split second, his eyes flicker upwards in confusion, but he's back to staring absently no sooner then he met her eyes.

"What happened there?" Olivia asks, bracing herself and tightening her grip on Marcus when Fox takes a sharp left turn. "With those guys?"

"I don't know." Another look through the rear-view mirror. "Though we were warned that we might see some action. Just off who, we don't really know."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

"I don't know who these guys are," Skye grumbled. "But if they put one hand on Manderfeld, I'll shake them to death. I mean it, shake them. To death. With the ground."

"Yeah?"

"Coulson just sent the word, it's Code Primogenitor."

"... and that means...?"

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

The phone picks up on the third ring.

"Dit is een noodgeval. Uw zoon in gevaar heeft gebracht. We moeten u te komen en hem medische hulp geven."

A pause. One second, two, three, and then, a sudden stream of immense anger. But the tone is quiet, threatening. The immediate calm before the storm.

" _... Mijn kind... Wat doet hij met_ _—_ _... Uw meerderen had mij beloofd dat u hem uit uw kleine project zou houden!_ "

"Doctor—"

 _"Do not "Doctor" me, Agent Hill!_ " The phone is pulled away with the explosion of noise. " _I want an explanation. Now._ "

An exhale of patience. "I'll have someone meet you at the airport."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

"What do you mean, they _escaped_?"

"Two of them were armed."

"They slaughtered an entire unit!"

"Like I said, they were armed; they were more than just the standard S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. That little bastard with the balaclava beat them around without breaking a sweat."

A frustrated sigh.

"Did you manage to ID him?"

"No; he had his back turned. Same with the woman. We got the girl, but I'm not sure if that will bear any fruit in the future. For now at least, she's gone."

The sound of a fist slamming into hardwood.

"Find them. Find them and keep on them, Coleman. Keep. On. Them."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

"We should be fine now but keep an eye out." Fox warns as she shoves Manderfeld into the elevator in one swift motion, keeping a hold of his collar so he doesn't completely fall flat on his face. He's shocked my the change in scenery and lifts his head to look around. He smiles for a moment but then drops his head back down. "We're on the fifth floor, right tough guy?"

" _Mhnn_."

The hotel they were at only had one elevator, and this elevator only went up the fourth floor, so they had to carry Manderfeld up another series of steps to get to the room. It goes okay for the first few steps, but then both women to realise just how heavy Manderfeld actually _is_ , and they regret their decision close to instantly. Half way up, through clenched teeth, Olivia gasps out: "I'm pretty sure you didn't want me for this."

"Nope." Fox agrees. "But your enthusiasm is noted. Christ, he weighs a freaking tonne."

"Even my powers can't—" Olivia suddenly gasps, and at Fox's expression, she panics and seems to let go because Manderfeld's legs drop downwards sharply against the steps below them. Surprised by the movement of his lower half, Manderfeld regains a bit of sense and frowns at the ground below him.

"Wha... Why'm I on the steps?"

"Correction," Fox says lightly, glancing at a clearly off-put Olivia. "Half of you is on the steps, tough guy. As for Olivia, don't you think that it's all nice and good, her using her powers to help you?"

" _My_ powers?" Manderfeld groans. "Nu-uh."

"Nope, mate. Olivia's powers."

"Oh." Manderfeld blinks, confused.

Fox rolls her eyes. "Okay. You're no help at all." She looks at Olivia. "Look, mate, it's fine. You using your powers. We're okay with it." She lets out a groan. "But if you could get hold of him—"

"—Oh, _sorry_." Olivia dashes for Manderfeld's legs again.

"It's fine." Fox sighs. "Let's just get him back."

By the time they've unlocked the door and shoved him onto the couch ten minutes later, Manderfeld is completely unconscious again and Fox's back is aching something fierce.

She gives him an offended look as she passes over a hotel menu to Olivia, who is collapsed on the chair opposite a small, battered looking TV. "Order something if you want. I'm going to see if there is anything to clean up his face with. He looks like he got on the wrong side of a flippin' tank."

"Did you see the size of those guys!" Olivia blurts out in surprise. "They _were_ tanks!"

Fox shrugs. "I'm used to it."

"And _him_?"

That catches her off guard and Fox turns over her shoulder to look towards the door.

Agent Hill, or simply Maria Hill, now, the former Deputy Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., stands just beyond the doorway, illuminated by the bare bulb above. Olivia looks startled, if only for a moment; Fox just looks plain relieved.

"You're lucky it was me who picked up the mayday; if any of the others..." She walks further inside, calmly, but with the tense ferocity of a woman stuck on the job. "Coulson sent the word out first, and Agent Johnson is following up. You guys will be on the way home as soon as they touchdown."

Suddenly all business, Fox folds her arms. "And the perimeter?"

"Secure as it can be under the circumstances," Hill replies and gestures towards the TV. "You lot made the news."

As Olivia scrambles for the remote, Hill shakes her head at the unconscious form.

"He's going to hate himself." She sighs, half in annoyance, half in pity and gives Fox a look. "Here, I'll show you what to do."

As she works on rolling Manderfeld onto his side, Fox frowns down at the older woman. "You've met him before?"

"Once. His father, we're more familiar with." Hill admits. Setting a hand on the underside of Manderfeld's jaw, she pushes his chin up, and seemingly satisfied with whatever it is she is looking at, waves towards the red medical bag sat happily on one of the beds.

"His _father_?" Fox wrinkles her nose as she hands it over.

Hill smirks. "And if you're as unlucky as you appear, you'll get to meet the Good Doctor too."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

This many people in such a small hotel room might have been suspicious, but with the owner satisfied by an advanced payment of a least a couple of thousand dollars up front, the team had little problem getting, and more importantly, _staying_ in.

In order to ensure that Manderfeld had the privacy he needed to come around without freaking the hell out, Skye had everyone pushed into the bedroom. Two beds, a double and a single, managed to accommodate the two Ukrainians and Elyssa sitting on the double, with Olivia, sat on the end of the single with Ki doing his cross-legged, zen thing against the headboard.

Terrence, Diane and Fox were all left leaning against the walls, as Skye sits at the nearby desk with her laptop.

"Okay," she starts typing, bringing up pictures upon the screen. "We can't be certain, but I think we know who these guys are now."

A grainy, single image is blow up fullscreen, and when the team leans forwards to get a closer look, they only see one thing of significance.

The broad shoulders of a dead, white male, with more emphasis on the right arm then—there, Skye zooms in more. The dark green armband, with block capital lettering, emphasised along the centre.

 **EIGHTH SYNDICATE**

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

"So, we finally meet face to face."

Leaning his head back, the ginger-haired male inspects the others across the table. The Latino with the freaky-ass amulet, the tall, blonde fellow in a business suit, the strikingly handsome woman with the striking wings, and finally, the wiry fellow wearing a stetson.

The Svalmond does not need to know their names, and they, his.

It is enough that they all share the same goal.

Pressing a section of a screen on his tablet, the Svlamond turns his chair slightly to direct their attentions to the bigger, larger projection behind him.

"Here is what we know on S.H.I.E.L.D. so far..."

* * *

 **[the uniform makes for brotherhood]**

* * *

Weee~

\- Yes, Skye is indeed nicknaming the Volkov twins after Jesse and Walter from Breaking Bad.

\- Something on names: S.H.I.E.L.D., much like the police or military, tend to emphasise more on surnames. So, characters who have had experience in S.H.I.E.L.D. before, such as Skye and Fox, a more likely to call a character by their surname rather than their first name. Hence why Manderfeld is known as Manderfeld to some, and Marcus to others, for example. For some people it differs, but hopefully when I've cycled through everyone's chapters, specific naming trends will be made more obvious.

\- Lots of little interesting details in regards to the baddies here. So keep your eyes peeled for future chapters.

\- Code Primogenitor, indeed: Agent Hill pissed off a certain Dutch medical consultant who is none to happy about the fact that his adorable, if stunted extension, is playing secret Agent. We'll meet more of him later. I added him because I realised, first with bemusement, then horror, that none of the team actually has a professional level of medical expertise. Whoops.

\- Oh and Hill is also important. Very important. Keep an eye out for her.

\- For those who are interested: Manderfeld himself is not a learned combatant, and would probably get his ass handed back to him if he got into a fight with anyone while, I don't know the term: Sane? Normal? Not under the Influence?

Anway.

When he is under the influence of the Omnicomp. Factor, he can replicate movement after observation. Hence why he could beat the living snot out of those baddies without any proper "training", and fly a plane. Of course, this does have it's downsides. If he is not physically strong enough to pull it off, well... expect more Marcus bashing in the future.

Once everyone has been recruited (Two more to go!), I'll be diving more into people's powers. Manderfeld is just, I don't know, obscure **–** because it's not a physical "Power", it's hard to describe. I'll get the hang of it at some point.

\- Seriously though, Manderfeld's Other Me is a lunatic. Watch out for him. He takes Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde to a whole new level.

\- Thanking y'all for the reviews. I'll be working on anything you sent me tomorrow, so if you are waiting for a reply, I'll be on it soon \o/


	8. Teaser: All Quiet on the Domestic Front

**[TEASER]**

|‖ тне цпіћіբоѓщ щакеѕ բоя вготћеяћооԁ ‖|  
[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Weee~ Thank you all for the reviews. A Little something in-between chapters. The second part of this, featuring the other characters, will eventually come along too.

* * *

 **|‖ TEASER ‖|  
ALL QUIET ON THE DOMESTIC FRONT**

 **BARNARD JOHAN KRUGER,** **1995**

Mister C. Atkinson, one of the richest men in the city, loved his mother's pastries with his morning coffee. Unfortunately for him, his office was on the Upper East Side, and Barnard's house was all the way across downtown.

But, being one of the wealthiest men in the city, he paid ten times more than anybody else to get what he wanted. So every morning at the crack of dawn, Barnard Kruger, old enough to be trusted with the job and also young enough to get stuck with it, crossed streets and walked down pavements, day after day, to make certain that Atkinson had that signature Mom flakiness just in time for his first meeting.

And it's here that he first realised just how wrong the world was.

The first time he saw the dark haired girl, he was eleven. She was with her sister as a group of his friends nearby played rugby. At first, Bernard did not notice them, until a wild kick knocked the ball right into the right side of the little sister's face.

There was blood everywhere, and Barnard, who couldn't stand the sight of it, went straight over there to see if she was okay. Only when the kicked ran over to retrieve his ball, did it all kick off. The older sister shoved him as hard as she could, clearly desperate to do something for her sister, even if it was after the fact.

Barnard instantly knew that this was a bad idea. A very, _very_ bad idea. If she had attended the same school as he, she would have learned that the boy was Patrick Aarens, a short-tempered bully whom it was often best to avoid. But her school was poor, closer to her neighborhood, full of children whose skin looked like hers, and full of theft, drug deals, and worse. So she had no idea.

"What are you doin', you dof munt?" he shoved her backward so violently that she tripped over her sister and sprawled on the ground. The little sister was shaking in terror as Patrick picked up her backpack and dumped the contents on the ground.

"Leave them alone," Barnard told him. He glanced at her with serious concern, before staring unwaveringly into Patrick's sneering face.

The taller boy laughed, "Kruger, less you need someone other than your mommy to knock you around, you should go."

Taking the momentary distraction to shove the younger sister's things back into her bag, the girl stood and ran, dragging her sister behind her. She didn't look back.

When he returned home with his left eye swelled shut, his mother and sister all played Parcheesi and each drank a bottle of Coke, a rare delicacy on the salary of a single mother, and it was here that Barnard asked:

"Mom, what will it take to save the world from violence?"

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **KI-MEI-CHAN, 2002**

Ji-Ka Chan stares at his eldest from across the room, fingers drumming impatiently against the arm of his throne, he sighs, evidently frustrated.

"You pushed your brother."

"He pushed me." Ki replied, defiantly.

"And what did that make you feel? To act such a way?" His father spits. Ki knows what it was he was feeling, even if he refuses to show it. Ji is an idiot. Much like their father. "Negative emotions like loneliness, envy, and guilt have no role to play in a happy life; they are signs that something needs to change."

Ki knows what needs to be changed.

But he'll wait.

Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.

And Ki-Mei Chan is _very_ good at waiting.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **OLIVIA ANDERSON, 2009**

Liv hated Maths.

Maria often made it better, but she was at home today, nursing what could only be another visible bruise, or, perhaps, something more serious. It left Liv to try and struggle through the day while upkeeping her promise to her father, staring at arithmetic she did not understand in a language she barely knew, surrounded by students that alienated her and thought her strange.

Standing at the front of the classroom and making vague gestures towards the whiteboard, the middle-aged teacher attempted to educate the room of disinterested children, who had long ceased from trying to learn anything this lesson. The air was hot and humid, and with the windows refusing to open, it was almost impossible to resist sleeping. Liv poked herself repeatedly with the sharp tip of her pencil, trying to stay awake. Sitting at identical desks beside her, her peers (she couldn't really call them your friends) had already given in to dozing and all of them had had detention slips placed on their desks as punishment; she was not going to suffer the same fate.

Liv hated lunchtime.

She tries to keep to herself wherever she can. It didn't work as well today, however, because they noticed her sitting in the corner.

The biggest one in the group decides to approach her, his words sound like he's speaking in tongues. Her heart seizes up and she's too scared to react.

Too scared to do what her mind and body wills; to just enter his mind, make him stop. Make them all stop. But her mind is filled with other things, business relationships of her father's, bus ticket referrals for the driver so she can get home every day; it would be too hard. Far too hard.

Liv doesn't respond, so he ends up pouring milk over her head.

She changes after, in the girl's toilets, before heading for home.

Liv did that so that she wouldn't have to smell... But her parents wouldn't have noticed it anyway;

They don't usually bother much, providing she's as normal and American as they expect.

Normal. It's the whole crux of the whole problem.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **MARCUS MANDERFELD, 1998**

To understand the relationship between both father and son, you have to understand the man as is what considered to be his core; for there was no easy way to describe the complex system that involved Albertus Manderfeld and his only son.

Dr. Albertus Manderfeld was, much like any man of the same genus, a man of professional pursuits. He was a second-generation Whitewaterian man. A Good Doctor. A Good Christian. A Good, solid, family man.

He was thirty when he first got married, and a father not long afterwards. It could be said that while there was indeed parents who do not love their children—Albertus was not one of them.

In truth, Albertus adored his son. It was just that he also saw Albertus Junior—for he refused, at all points, to ever refer to his son with that, as he saw it, menial, moniker—as a bit of a walkover, a potential victim. He never once hit his son; he never hit either of his children, despite his capable youth's career as a powerful fist fighter, but he had plenty of harsh things to say to him. His son, he saw, was timid; he grew up shy of this, worried of that, and was more liable to fix himself against his father's trouser leg then advance on any given issue. Dr. Manderfeld cherished for him, for the most part, with a sense of a affection, which is at once slight and severe, yet accommodating and protective all the same, but he worried relentlessly. Saint Agethius was not a place for the weak willed.

He idolised his son after his own fashion, with an accompaniment of snappishness and the occasional grab of the collar.

The younger Manderfeld, however loved his father wholeheartedly, in a similarly potent, yet fundamentally different manner. Albertus liked his little sister; he was frequently drawn to Carla's shell-like smallness; but he adored the elder Albertus with a ridiculous, loverlike devotion that almost made his late mother pity the child. Dr. Manderfeld was not forgiving. Albertus was. He was delighted to spend any and all time with his father any day as a boy, as delighted as he would have been to suffer to his sister's games or sort washed socks with the maids.

Albertus wasn't just accommodating; he simply expanded, with great good humour and faith, to fill any space you happened to put him in. He was the John to the Father's Matthew and Mark.

One evening, however, Dr. Manderfeld began to notice something... strange, about his boy. Something he didn't quite like. Something that did not quite fit the handsome little boy of six years, white, rosy, fresh, with happy and trusting eyes.

"We learned about arithmetic today." His son told him, gruffly, (in English, as mealtimes were spoken in the second language for practice purposes) his usually cheery demeanour stricken with disappointment and his facial features pulled into a comical parody of adult frustration as he cut his sliced carrots in half with a little more force than what was strictly necessary. "I told Mevr. Beringer that you taught me arithmetic when I was three, and she got _mad_ , Daddy."

"Did she?" Dr. Manderfeld replied, only half-feigning shock. He knew about this particular issue with his teacher. As soon as he was capable, he was going to be addressing it. "Well. We'll sort it out, don't you worry."

"Can you sort faster, please?" The boy asks, pushing his legs against his chair as he reached across the table to grab his drink.

"Both hands, Albertus."

He reached over with both hands this time, and just about managed to _not_ spill anything on the mahogany as he picked up his water. "I don't like school," he whined. "It's for babies. Sums are for babies, Daddy. I can do sums. Even Mevr. Beringer knows I..."

And then, just like that, he's trailing off sharply and the cup he was holding falls straight from his hands, onto his lap, and then the floor. Dr. Manderfeld is standing up almost instantly, breathing out sharply through his teeth.

"By all that it is holy, Albertus! Again?!" He very nearly shouts, and their maid, Jolanda, is pushing through the door that leads to the kitchen when he notices that something is wrong.

Albertus doesn't react when his father picks him up half way from the chair. He's breathing hard through his nostrils, but he's not talking. He hasn't even realised that he's spilt everything over himself; it's not warm water, either, he'd know. He would respond if his father shouted. But he isn't.

He doesn't respond when Dr. Manderfeld twists him around to face him. He's staring into space.

Pulse hammering away inside his neck like it doesn't belong there, Dr. Manderfeld stood his son up and kneeled down in front of him, frowning. "Wat is het, Albertus? Wat is er aan de hand? Kunt u mij vertellen wat is er mis?"

Headaches severe enough to impair movement are virtually unheard of in healthy children. And, it isn't an absence seizure. Of that, he is fairly sure. He knows that his son does not have epilepsy.

Albertus tenses his hands into tight fists, blinks and frowns. "Mijn... hoofd voelt vreemd..." He grumbles, sluggish.

Dr. Manderfeld has no idea what it is.

But it won't be the last time it happens.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **DAINE QUEEN, 1997**

When she was five years old, she learned that she could control the ocean.

Diane doesn't tell her parents.

In fact, she doesn't tell anyone.

But the man in the suit sees.

Come later, she'll learn that the men in the suits see everything.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **KIRA ELAINE FOX, 1999**

Twenty minutes late, Kira arrived in her father's training burro. It was empty except for the Doctor himself, who did not look up or give any sign that he had seen his daughter. He continued to write in his ledger for another five minutes before speaking, still without looking up.

"What took you so long?"

"Dr. Langley stopped me in the corridor of the outer banks."

"Why?"

"He heard a noise outside, I think."

"What noise?" Finally, the doctor looked at her. His eyes were a pale, almost watery blue, but sharp. They did not miss much. Or anything.

"They were opening the Northwest Gate to let in the freshboys. He wasn't expecting them today. I'd say his nose was out of joint."

"Hold your tongue," said the doctor, but mildly by his unforgiving standards. Kira knew that he despised Dr. Langley, and hence she felt it less dangerous to speak in such a way of an adult. "I asked your friend about the rumor they'd arrived," said her father.

"I have no friends, Father," replied Kira. "They're forbidden."

Dr. Ross Fox laughed softly, not a pleasant sound.

"I have no worries about you on that score, girl. But if we must plod—the scrawny blond-haired one. What do you call him?"

"Henry."

"I know his given name. You have a moniker for him."

"I call him Vague Henry."

Her father laughed, but this time there was the echo of some ordinary good humor.

"Very good," he said appreciatively. "I asked him what time the freshboys had arrived and he said he wasn't sure, sometime between eight bells and nine. I then asked him how many there were and he said fifteen or so, but it might have been more." He looked Kira straight in the eyes. "I thrashed him to teach him to be more specific in future. What do you think of that?"

"It's all the same to me, Father," replied Kira flatly. "He deserved whatever punishment you gave him."

"Really? How very gratifying you should think so. What time did they arrive?"

"Just before five."

"How many were there?"

"Twenty."

"What ages?"

"None younger than seven. None older than nine."

The doctor grunted as if only barely satisfied that all his questions had been answered so precisely. "Go over to the board. I've set a puzzle for you. Ten minutes."

Kira walked over to a large table, twenty feet by twenty, on which her father had rolled out a map, which fell slightly over the edges. It was easy to recognize some of the things drawn there—hills, rivers, woods—but on the remainder there were numerous small blocks of wood on which were written numbers and hieroglyphs, some of the blocks in order, some apparently chaotic. She stared at the map for her allotted time and then looked up.

"Well?" said her father.

Kira began to set out his solution.

Twenty minutes later she finished, her hands still held out in front of her.

"Very ingenious. Impressive, even," said the doctor. Something in Kira's eyes changed. Then with extraordinary speed the doctor lashed the girl's left hand with a leather belt studded with tiny but thick tacks.

Kira winced and her teeth ground together in pain. But quickly her face returned to the watchful coldness that was these days all that her father ever saw from him. The doctor sat down and considered the girl as if she were an object both interesting and yet unsatisfactory.

"When will you learn that to do the clever thing, the original thing, is merely your pride controlling you? This solution may work, but it's unreasonably risky. You know very well the tried solution to this problem. In war a dull success is always better than a brilliant one. You had better learn to understand why."

He banged the table furiously.

"Have you forgotten that any adult here has the right to kill instantly any child who does something unexpected?"

There was another crash as he hit the table again, stood up and glared at Kira. Blood, not a great amount, dripped from the four holes in her still-outstretched left hand.

"No one else would have indulged you the way I have. What do you say to that?"

Cale stared ahead and said nothing.

"Answer me!"

"Thank you, Father."

"Do you think you are needed, you useless creature?"

"No, Father."

"Get out."

Dropping her hands to her side, Kira turned and walked to the door.

"Don't bleed on the mat," called out the doctor, almost pleadingly.

Kira opened the door with her good hand and left.

Alone in his cell the doctor watched the door close. As it clicked shut, his expression changed from that of barely constrained rage to one of thoughtful curiosity.

Outside in the corridor Kira stood for a moment in the horrible brown light that infected everywhere in the compound and examined her left hand. The wounds were not deep, because the studs in the belt had been designed to cause intense pain without taking long to heal. She made a fist and squeezed, her head shaking as if a small tremor were taking place deep inside her skull as the blood from her hand dropped heavily onto the floor. Then she relaxed her hand, and in the grim light a look of horrible despair crept over her face. In a moment, it was gone, and Kira walked on down the corridor and out of sight.

She'll go and find Christian. There is no doubt that his day would have been far worse than hers.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **ARTYOM VOLKOV, 2000**

Macca never liked even odds. Playing fair was for idiots. So when he socked Artyom in the face that morning, the boy knew what was coming.

Those in _Червона Армія_ often did. He did. His brother, the way he winced from across the Classroom when he felt the fist slamming into his cheek, did. The twenty Third-Generation boys of Red Army all did.

"If you punch me back," Macca tells him, staring him straight in the face with that twitchy mustache and shining blue eyes. "I will put you on the line, and you will die."

Artyom doesn't punch him back.

He kicks him instead.

At six years old, Artyom and Andrei Volkov are shining examples of Good Comrades.

One day, they have been old, the two brothers will be great leaders.

But now, they sit in the Classroom, Artyom with his face slowly swelling up and Andrei sitting silently without protest, as they repeat that very saying over and over and over, as they do every morning and every night:

На честь мого присягаюся безсмертну відданість Червоної армії,  
та непохитної послух офіцерів нашого великого лідера.

Я повинен шанують в хороше рішення.  
Я повинен стояти правда, як ці лідери вище судити про мене, і ці селяни нижче взяти мене, якщо я не можу в мій обов'язок Червоної армії.

Довгий приборкати Червоної армії,  
довгий Rein загальні Михайлов.

Довгий приборкати Червоної армії,  
довгий Rein загальні Михайлов.

Довгий приборкати Червоної армії,  
довгий Rein загальні Михайлов.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **JUNIPER DESDEMONA, 2002**

His grandmother is visiting. They have finished dinner. Plates are being put away.

"It is time," she tells his mother.

"In the cabinet," his mother answers.

Juniper's grandmother is a short, stout woman. She goes to the cabinet, but at her height, the upper shelf is out of reach.

"Jump up there," she tells him.

He jumps up on a chair and looks.

"See that candle?"

On the top shelf is a little glass, filled with wax. A wick sticks up from the middle.

"This?"

"Careful."

"What's it for?"

"Your grandfather."

He jumps down. Juniper never met his grandfather. He died of a heart attack, after fixing a sink at a summer cottage. He was forty-two.

"Was that his?" He asks.

Entering from the dining room area, his uncle puts a hand on his shoulder.

"We light it to remember him. Go play."

Doing as he is told, Juniper leaves the room, but he sneaks a look back, and sees his mother, grandmother and uncle standing by the candle, mumbling a prayer.

Later—after they have gone upstairs—he returns. All the lights are out, but the flame illuminates the countertop, the sink, the side of the refrigerator. He does not yet know that this is a religious ritual. Juniper thinks of it as magic. He wonders if his grandfather is in there, a tiny fire, alone in the kitchen, stuck in a glass.

He never wants to die.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **TERRENCE MENSAH, 2001**

The no-contact visiting room was supposed to be soundproof. There was a vanilla-colored telephone on his side that he would use to speak to his mother when she came in. But he could watch her already, through the long rectangle of the window of the door opposite, standing in profile as if the window were a picture frame, her head hanging down, her fuzzy dark hair shadowing her face.

Mutter, mutter, she said, and then, "...could kick him today even, though technically, you know, there has to be a custody proceeding for a juvenile, and we can't do that until Monday afternoon at the earliest. But Margie..."

More mumbling. More mumbling.

"...scare the hell out of him. I mean, the decisions going on in there are whether to cop to the rape charge in exchange for dropping the drug charge. They got the father stabbers on one side and the mother stabbers on the other. It's a gamble, Margie, but this is a kid who wrecked a stolen car, drunk, and scuffled with a cop...peanuts, Marge."

It's peanuts? Or not peanuts? Terrence tried to slow down the thrum of his heart that interfered with his hearing. His heart rebelled, pummeling harder.

Outside, his mom made a noise, tossed her head back.

"I don't mean to you," The cop went on, "but for all Terrence has done in the past, you know...a criminal kid. This isn't a pattern. This is his first major antisocial... Marge, you know what I'm saying... In this case, reform school for this, especially with his history..."

Jesus God, thought Terrence. Is that the best I can get, or the worst?

"...teach him the world doesn't owe him a living no matter how he screws up?" Mum asked then, louder.

"I don't think the world owes him a living, Marge," the cop said. "But the world owes him an apology."

Terrence heard another voice, muffled. Dad. Oh, good Christ. Came home to stick his nose in, did he? The cop replied, "Well, yeah, Bill. You know all this shit. Don't you?"

"Why not be a mother, Marge?" Terrence could hear his dad's voice, tiny, but he knew Bill was yelling. He could visualize him, throwing his chest out. He hated that little rooster posture, the one that sometimes ended with a fist through a hollow-core door. "Why not just try it?"

"Bill," the cop grumbled. "Shut up."

The door behind him whispered again. The quiet guard. "They'll be with you in a minute, Terrence."

He put his hands over his face. Fuck the bacteria. And then the door in front of him opened inward, and there was his mother, not much more deranged-looking than on any ordinary day, taking in the dirty window and the scummy phone and him in his ruined clothing, as if all of it were furnishings, sitting down. He was so sick to his stomach, tasting the peach brandy, that looking at the raccoony way Mum rubbed the backs of her little strong hands against her cheeks as she sat down, it was so much, something he could picture her doing in her robe in the kitchen or something, he almost started to cry, and then he thought he would puke. He looked away.

"Terrence," she said.

"Hi, Mim."

"How are you?"

"Okay."

They sat there. His mother breathed in through her nose and let the air escape her mouth with a long hiss. Terrence concentrated on swallowing, swallowing. Maybe, he thought, she'll give me hell. She'll tear a strip off me. Any other parent in the hemisphere would. This was, after all, a big-time jerk-off. He guessed he deserved it. Mum? He looked at her and coiled in preparation. But she just sat there Momishly. Finally, she seemed to think of something.

"I know, what you were doing."

Insurance on the car. Insurance on the car.

They don't need the car anymore, but they do need the cash.

"So, do you need anything? I mean, anything at all from home? Because I think that you're going to have to stay here a day or so more, because it's the weekend..."

And learn my lesson like a good little boy, thought Terrence, feeling better. Well, actually, Mum, yes, I need a couple of things. I need to get out of this shitty dump where the light's in your face no matter which way you turn and the guy in the next bed keeps looking at me as if I was a Big Mac and the little thirteen-year-old kid one room over is crying nonstop for his grandma. A little kid who cut his mother's boyfriend in the gut with a steak knife. Yeah, I need a couple of things, Mum.

"No, I'm fine," he said.

"Are you sure? You look green. Are you sick to your stomach or anything?"

"Nope, mum." Terrence sighed. "I'm fine."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **JOHNNY-LEE MILFORD, 2001**

They don't know who did it, but they couldn't get it off the website.

REMUS WANTS HIS EMPIRE BACK.

Johnny-Lee watches the teacher's confusion, as they drift between computers, trying to see if it's a joke. If it's just a problem.

REMUS WANTS HIS EMPIRE BACK.

It isn't

REMUS WANTS HIS EMPIRE BACK.

Every compiuter screen in St. Thomas' CofE Primary has a blank screen with this message on it.

REMUS WANTS HIS EMPIRE BACK.

And he's the only one who knows what it means.

* * *

 **[the uniform makes for brotherhood]**

* * *

Ahh! Here we go, all done.

\- Yes, Marcus' full name is Albertus Manderfeld Jr, now, because character reasons. _Albertus_. I know. I enjoy teasing my OCs.

Again, the second part, featuring all the other characters in baby form will be around at some point. More for my enjoyment than anything. Children are often crazy fun to write.


	9. Chapter 1, Part 5: Win-Win

**[FIVE]**

|‖ тне цпіћіբоѓщ щакеѕ բоя вготћеяћооԁ ‖|  
[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **|‖ CHAPTER ONE, PART FIVE ‖|  
WIN-WIN**

The idea of Agents being able to live their own lives may have started with Skye, but it was Coulson who brought it into the realms of possibility.

Before, well before, there were practices for similar situations; sleepers, and agents of influence—

( _Ward, Ward, Ward_ , replayed itself endlessly in his mind.

Even now, after everything, he can't let it go.)

—who were capable of remaining in a civilian setting for long periods of time, but they were, admittedly, few and far between. S.H.I.E.L.D. was diverse and sprawling before its downfall, yes, but it was also unique, and therefore, had to pick and choose from the same small pool of candidates. Skilled, capable agents were needed regularly, either be it for duty or simple insurance and, ergo, they were isolated for ease of access. Coulson was. Taken straight out of high school before he could implant any roots, his whole career has been S.H.I.E.L.D. from the beginning. No family, no friends outside of work. A few small investments and a small apartment in Portland that is no longer in his name.

And he is not the only one. Romanov, Hill, Fury—the only one who managed to have any sort of respite was Barton.

Which brought him back to Skye's team at hand.

For now, he has time. They were still in Stage One of procedure. _Recruitment_. Stage Two would follow on from there, further evaluation and additional training, working out the flaws and trying to bring some sort of order to this crazy range of abilities.

Stage Three was, eventually, the re-integration back into regular society.

It wasn't going to be easy.

But, with the two remaining candidates tracked down, it brought them to more crucial elements of the overall program. They were moving onwards, now.

And moving onwards meant sitting eleven, doubtful, alienated and highly complicated individuals down with a damn Psychologist.

After the... incident with Agent Manderfeld, Fox, and the newly minted Anderson, he spent no time in reeling Garner in after his trip to East Asia. He doesn't doubt that the new team is capable; that news footage proved otherwise, it's just that, much like the original Avengers, if they weren't properly maintained and contained, they would implode. The larger percentage of them were young, under twenty-one, and had difficult personalities in one way or another, even if they happen to be personable in day-to-day interaction. They were _going_ to be difficult to manage, one way or another.

It was expected; it was why they were chosen. There were many people on the Index, but many of them had a stable family and personal relationships, stable upbringings. These people? These eleven individuals of extraordinary capabilities had one thing common:

They were all, to some degree, outsiders.

Garner was going to have his work cut out for him, to say the least.

And as for the _other_ one.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

When the doctor first stepped into the room, Olivia thought of two things:

This man is a father.

And this man is foolishly wealthy.

The second was the easiest to identify. The pristine white shirt and the navy Houndstooth check pattern tie. Expensive and tailored and pressed to perfection. It was cold enough for some to be in winter jackets still, but he made no motion to suggest he even felt it. On his feet were shiny black shoes that she couldn't imagine the guy polishing himself. At his side was a case in fine brown leather. He stank of it. Literally; that cologne must have cost a few hundred dollars.

The second observation was less obvious, but as equally profound.

Any ordinary person might have had him pegged for another faceless professional executive, two-dimensional flat, but the minute he set eyes on Marcus...

Olivia saw it. She's none too sure if anyone else did, but she saw it.

Standing at a height far taller than anyone else in the room, perhaps even taller than some of the lads next door, the doctor outclassed them all in terms of frame. He was built like a damn grizzly bear; all broad shoulders and biceps, and the grip he had on that case indicated that said muscle was not just for show, either, that he was a powerful combatant in his own right. In what, it was hard to tell. There were no scars, no bruises or old breaks; aside from the details of age, his face was completely unblemished, but he carried himself like a fighter, with a wide, sure posture that screamed of self-merit.

It wasn't hard, Oliva noted then, to see the resemblance.

It was the eyes that did it. Unpolished blue kyanite with flecks of navy. Canaanite blue, as Hill had put it, almost fondly. It was identical. Then, the same dark hair cut sharp and neat into a conservative style. The brow line pulled into that same concerned furrow. The same subtle head tilt. And, of course, the breath of the shoulders was also completely inspired, though Marcus Manderfeld apparently hadn't inherited his father's vertical attributes.

Give Marcus fifteen to twenty years, and he well could be this man. Completely, utterly.

Or, that was what Olivia had felt at first; the minute he spoke, however, while it was more than apparent that while Marcus Manderfeld was everything in regards to cheerful and optimistic, his father was nothing of the sort.

Moving into the room slowly, almost frustratedly, the doctor walked across the hardwood floor while a flustered young woman followed his steps, shutting the door behind them. Hill made to say something, eventually taken aback by this sudden addition, but the doctor waved a hand at the surprised agent.

"She speaks no English," the doctor murmured, taking position overlooking Marcus just before the sofa. He paused for a moment, as if observing, before opening his mouth with a sharp inhale and adding slowly: "Sit him up, please."

Fox moved around to grab him from one side, equal parts pulling and pushing to shift the younger into a sitting position. With the disturbance, Marcus actually 'awoke' for a moment or two, his face crumpling to that of confusion when he identified his father standing above him and, as if encouraged by the apparent threat of _awkward_ , dropped again into the semi-conscious state he'd been in for the past six and a bit hours.

Regarding Hill with a look that was close to hostile, if only in the eyes, the doctor bent slightly to slip two fingers of his left hand against Marcus' throat. "And for how long was he active for?"

Hill frowned. "Active?"

"Under the influence." He snapped back without turning his head.

"I'm not sure." Hill turned to Fox. "How long?"

Fox shifted with the attention, regarding Marcus with a head tilt. "About, well, from the start of the fight right 'till the end, twenty minutes at least. Twenty-five to thirty at most."

"And he did not fight it." The doctor grumbled, apparently displeased to the point of severe disapproval, because he added, with natural authoritatively, a statement in a language Olivia did not understand. "Welke problemen heb je jezelf in deze tijd?!"

Startled by the change in language, Marcus rolled his head back and groaned in a small moment of clarity. "Het niet _mijn_ schuld."

"I'll bet." Hill rolled her eyes and sighed. "So what will it take to fix him then, doc?"

Sliding his hand behind Marcus' head, the doctor shook his head sharply.

"Too long." He growled, frowning. "The boy is debilitated," using pressure with the thumb and pointer finger on the opposite sides of the neck, he elicited a sleeper hold type grip, like the sort of thing Spock would do, and had Marcus falling inward against the sofa arm in a matter of seconds. No hesitation, no nothing. One second Marcus was in his semi-awake state, the next he was completely out for the count.

The doctor gave him a disappointed look.

"What you saw here was not sleeping," he explained, in stressed English. "He was conscious, but also mentally incapacitated to the point of failing to respond to stimuli. He'll need longer—longer than we can provide here—to recover. After that, an fMRI and CT, followed by after-treatment. You have this, no?"

"Yes." Hill nodded. "I'll radio ahead to Agent Johnson," and then, as in afterthought. "How did you get here, anyway?"

The doctor looked at her as if she was stupid.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Stood behind the desk in one of the three offices in the Premises, Andrew Garner inspected the eleven dossiers one at a time. He was in the midst of setting them into two piles, Category As, and Category Bs.

It wasn't hard to understand the reason for them, even if that reason could actually be interpreted multiple ways.

"You said that they would be arriving soon?"

Coulson nodded as he massaged his forehead with his index finger and thumb. "ETA is at oh-five-hundred, but they'll want to rest. Five of them will arrive later than intended. One of them is incapacitated, so they'll be taking it slow. He'll require medical attention before we can go any further."

Garner tilted his chin upwards in thought. "The one in the fight?" Coulson nodded again. "I want to meet him as soon as possible. The footage wasn't... _subtle_ , and according to his file, that amount of idealism will prove counter-productive if he proves truly upset." He tapped the file. "The sooner I can start working with him the better. It's just the little things, though, sir."

"Yeah?"

"He's got two names."

"They all call him Marcus."

Garner nodded and gave Coulson a searching look. "Speaking of two names. How is little Andrew?"

Coulson sighs and pushes himself against the chair. "He's good. We're good. Helps that he's so enthusiastic."

"And Audrey?"

"Less so."

Garner gives him a small smile. "To everything there is a season, my friend. To everything, there is a season,"

"Experience?" Coulson replies, only half amused.

The Psychologist shrugs. There wasn't much else to say.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

She's wearing a green hoodie, jeans and light green converse. The comic book she was reading is flattened on her lap, and the chair is just a little bit too tall for her feet to reach the floor.

"Will you tell me your name?" asked Fox. She made no move to squat down in front of the girl, to smile, to do anything at all to come down to her level. Instead, she remained standing, her posture neither friendly nor threatening, but simply as neutral as she could make it. Her gaze was steady, interested.

The girl looked at her from across the room. She was only twelve, but the girl's gaze was just as steady as hers, though there was perhaps a trace of wariness in her eyes.

 _Completely understandable_ , she thought. _If she knew why I was here there'd be more than just a trace_.

The girl held his body just as noncommittally as she held her own, though she could tell by the tightness in her small neck that that might change any moment, without warning.

"You first," the girl said, and then moved her mouth into something that could pass for a smile.

Her voice was calm, as if he were used to being in charge of a situation. Not afraid, then. Not surprising, thought Fox. If the report she'd read was correct, she'd both seen and done some terrible, if accidental things. And she was smart. Smart enough that elementary school testing processes were way out of proportion; she was clearly downplaying her intelligence to remain invisible. Not a normal tactic for the average twelve-year-old to use.

"I already know your name," Fox admitted. "It's Serena."

"If you knew, why did you ask?"

"I wanted to see if you'd tell me," she said. Then she paused. "I'm Doctor Fox," she said, and smiled.

Serena didn't smile back. She now saw more than a trace of suspicion in her gaze, suspicion that sat strangely in his face alongside his brown hair and mismatched eyes. "What kind of doctor?" she asked.

"I'm a scientist," said Fox.

"Not a sigh—, not a sigh—"

"No," she said, and smiled. "I'm not a psychiatrist. You've been seeing a lot of psychiatrists, haven't you?"

She hesitated just a moment, and then nodded.

"Because of your parents' deaths?"

She hesitated, nodded again.

Was she right to consider Serena for the team? Certainly she was bright and resourceful. But at the same time, what would it do to someone to go through that experience? Nobody knew how traumatised she was. Nobody knew for certain what it had done—and might still be doing—to her. Probably not even her.

But then, they've all got their share of traumas.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

Fox looked at her and considered.

"The truth is," she said, "I came to see you."

"Why?" she countered.

She returned the girl's even gaze. Suddenly she made her decision. "I'm trying to decide if you're right for something we're working on. An experiment, but not a bad one, like in a lab—it's called a social experiment. It doesn't involve doctors, not even me. I can't tell you what it is, I'm afraid. But if it works in the way we hope it will you'll be stronger and faster and smarter than you could ever imagine, and you can save people. With your powers. Do good."

For the first time, she looked slightly confused. "Why would you want to do something like that for me? You don't even know me."

With a sigh, Artyom, who had remained in his trademark silence throughout the entire exchange, reached out and tousled her hair. Fox pleased when she didn't flinch or shy away.

"It's not for _you_ , exactly," she said. "It's for all of us, and the rest of the world. I can't tell you much more. It won't be easy; it'll be the hardest thing you've ever done—even harder than what happened with your parents."

"And what have you decided?" the girl asked.

"I've decided to let you be the one to decide," she said.

"What if I say no?"

Fox shrugged. "You'd stay here. The authorities would arrange a foster home for you." Not much of a chance of that, she thought. The girl is between a rock and a hard place.

"All right," Serena said and stood up.

"All right what?" she said.

"I'm coming with you. When do we leave?"

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

His first meeting, little under a day later, was with one of the Category As.

 _Patient seated at the table. Posture is relaxed, leaning back in the_ chair _with arms crossed, complete lack of facial expression apart from constant speech which is too quiet to be recorded by cameras. A well-practiced smirk._

Andrew Garner doesn't need to be told, he knows a trained bullshitter when he sees one.

And Agent Andrei Volkov was not happy, at all, to be stuck in this room with him.

He slides the Ukrainian's file forward, "I think we should just start with what we know so far..."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Skye and Diane waited until he had moved away from the gravestone before approaching.

Juniper is an attractive young man, weary, but graceful despite his circumstances. Skye knows, that even know their backgrounds are completely in reverse to one another, however, that they each have (Or in Skye's case, had) a common trait. They were both at a loss.

Surprised by their presence, the young man makes to approach them. Diane looks at Skye for instruction.

"Sucks, doesn't it?" She asks instead when Juniper Desdemona gets close enough, and indicates her head towards the gravestone. "I know a stranger's sympathy might not count for much, but for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Thank you." He replies, touched, but also weary. "Did you happen to know them...? I'm afraid I don't quite remember..."

"Me? No, I never knew your parents. I knew _of_ them, by middle-man proxy, but I never knew them. I don't know you either, but the sentiment is the same." Hands in her pockets, she jerks her shoulders at Diane. "We're part of a group that's looking for very special people. And before you go thinking us like the Men in Black, you can chill, dude. Like I said," She gives him a grin. "Sucks, doesn't it?"

Juniper looks alarmed, but behind those blue eyes there is a hint of intrigue. "You're... You're like me?"

"Sort of." Skye shrugs. "Diene here can control water. I make earthquakes in my spare time. There are others, back at base, and they do other things. One guy can achieve the intellectually impossible, and one can fire energy out of his hands like a cannon. One girl can control shadows, and our boss, he got his arm cut off and shrugged it off like scraped knee."

Diane gives him a smile. "We're S.H.I.E.L.D., ever heard of us?"

"Yeah." Juniper frowns. "You're criminals, apparently."

"Tsk. I told you we should have pretended to be Avengers." Diane sighs. Skye shrugs.

"Well, that's one way to put it, dude. Half of us were criminals, technically, but that's because, like, there was a secret organisation within the secret organisation and the former was textbook evil. This S.H.I.E.L.D., our S.H.I.E.L.D., is different. Partly because there's less than twenty-five of us, now. My team, the one I want you to join, is filled with people like you and me, and we want to try and work together to save the normal boring folk from the not-so-normal folk who take their abilities for granted and do shitty stuff with them."

"You and me?" Juniper raises an eyebrow. "How I know what your saying is the truth?"

"Well," Skye tilts her head. "I could make an earthquake right now, but that's a bit... well, _overkill_ , man. I might hurt someone by accident."

She grimaces.

"The point is, you can't. Not completely. But what else have you got going for you, honestly? You're in your senior year, both of your parents are gone, and that ability of yours is sending you on the same route as dear mom and dad. You need help, we need help, the people of Earth need help, it's a win-win."

He breathes in sharply, suddenly inspired. "You know how to cure it?"

Skye shrugs. "I don't, but we've... got an incredible team here, dude. I can't, but I'm pretty sure that _they_ can."

"And with it, I can... We can actually help people?"

"That's the idea."

Juniper looks at them both for a long moment.

"I can't decide right now." He says. "I need time."

Skye gives Diane a nod. "That's fine. There's a coffee place in town, you drink? We can explain more there."

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

He's awake, twenty hours after first falling unconscious.

And he's in Garner's office. Standing there. Looking at him.

Well, not at him. Not quite.

He's short, and looks eerily like his father, but he's also unkept, and bruised. Uncomfortably so. His hair is falling over his forehead, uncombed and ungelled. As he finished sitting up straight, posture clearly influenced by correction from his public school teachers, his pale blue eyes pierced into Garner's, holding within them an almost unsettling amount of perception.

"Do you know why we're having this little chat today?"

"Yes."

"Care to elaborate?"

"I can read upside down."

Garner looked down at his clipboard, smiling a little. Marcus most certainly wasn't stupid. And it was true.

"Okay then. Let's just have a normal chat. Off the record."

He sat up even straighter, if that was at all possible, legs crossed and fingers steepled against his chin.

"Let's."

"Let's start with you. Tell me about yourself."

"My name is Albertus Marcus Pieter Manderfeld, _Junior_. I'm the eldest son of Dr. Albertus Manderfeld Sr., and my late mother Sara. I have a sister who is four years my junior. I'm twenty-three. I've got two masters. One in Military History and the other in Philosophy. I was going to undertake a Ph.D to keep Father quiet, but S.H.I.E.L.D. got there first. My blood type is O Neg..." he trailed off, clearly reluctant to carry on. "But this isn't what you want to hear."

Garner leaned forward a little. "Well it's still about you. But they are just facts. Tell me something else. How are you feeling right now?"

"Right now? Like I want to beat myself senseless. Or, well, more senseless than I feel right about now. These painkillers are strong."

"That's... _forthcoming_..."

"I hate and abhor lying: but thy law do I love."

"Yes, your file said you're religious. Methodist?"

"Ja."

"Tell you what, I'll start. My name is Andrew Garner. I like dogs, but I can't have one because work takes up too much of my time. I play the piano, badly, and my favourite colour is blue."

He waited, and waited. Marcus digested this information.

And then:

"I play the violin, and I'm good at it, but refused to take my Grade tests because Father insisted that my development was for him to ensure and no one else. They aren't important. And I only play it because it jogs my memory after an episode. Familiar. It helps recreate abstract memories. I don't have any pets—my sister is allergic to cats and dogs. My favourite book is Great Expectations; it's the first book I read longer than a hundred pages, even though it's not very well written."

"Not well written? It's a Dickens! One of the most famous ones."

Marcus shrugged. "Mr. Dickens clearly wants the reader to believe the benefactor is Miss. Havisham. It was obvious that... never mind. Just me." He muttered under his breath. "Why don't people see stuff?"

"I can see right now that you're angry," Garner noted. "About what happened in the cafe?"

"Disgusted, not so much as angry."

Garner laced his fingers together. "Oh?"

"You see what the Other Me did?" Marcus very nearly, very nearly, choked. "You look me in the eye, right now, and tell me that I should be proud of _that_."

"Some people in your position would have been," Garner noted, carefully. "If it wasn't for you, one of the two women might have gotten hurt. Civilians, too."

"It's not that," Marcus very nearly grumbled. "I _get_ that. It's one of the reasons why I stopped... It's why I let myself do it, because at the end of the day, I know that the Other one's judgement is... better, in those circumstances, but that doesn't mean I have to _like_ it."

Garner nodded. "No, that's understandable. But coming to terms with it..." He trailed off, frowning. "You hate violence. It's obvious. Why?"

Marcus stared above his head for a long, long time.

And then, almost hurriedly.

"Our twenty minutes is up. I'm scheduled to be in the mission prep."

* * *

 **[the uniform makes for brotherhood]**

* * *

Managed to find some spare time in study today, so I can get this thing uploaded.

\- Coulson's reference to Agents living isolated lives in comparison to most is deliberate _because_ :

\- The reference to "Little Andrew" will be explored in a short story I'm writing for **Faulkner~** It's his birthday present. Feel free to give it a shot; I'd love to see what people think. It's titled _They've All Come to Look for America_ , and is set a few months before this storyline in particular. Or well, the first chapter in 2012, the rest a few months ago.

\- (Admit it, Daddy!Coulson is adorable—and it is my headcanon that he would make an awesome, ultra- _fail_ dad.)

\- Garner is an interesting, subtly devious, but intelligent character. I will enjoy having him here to dissect the OC!character's dirty little secrets. Starting with Manderfeld and the Volkov twins, because them three are MESSED up.

\- Also, in the event that one of your characters must either go undercover or eventually settle into back into society, what do you propose their new names ought to be? First names can be kept, for obvious reasons, but new surnames and middle names are desirable. Of course, they're not permanent.

\- Dr. Manderfeld means well, but he's a bit of an elitist prick. (Pardon, my French) Be prepared for future snark to end all snark, ladies and gentlemen, because he is the biggest piece of work I have ever written in ten years of writing! Huzzah!

\- That's it, that's all the team characters, and ergo, the end of Chapter One. Hope Y'all enjoyed.

\- and now, I must sleep. Becuase I've been awake for twenty-seven hours. Eek.


	10. Important Notice

Hey guys, Norsemungandr here.

Now I know you've all been waiting, it's been a long time since I last updated - very long, actually.

While it may not be the correct way to tell you all this, I feel that there isn't much else I can do without staying silent forever - and I've already decided that, after all the work we've put in, it isn't fair. So, without any further ado:

About three weeks after I first uploaded the latest chapter (ch2, pt1 was about three quarters done by this point), I noticed that something wasn't quite right. Medically speaking. I've been sick on and off for months. I had started having pains, even though I stopped cycling in winter. I found myself feeling more tired, more exhausted. Finally, my doctor eventually decided to begin some tests, and suffice to say, we got our answers. They came back positive.

Now this is big, of course. Huge. I'm 18, so at no point did I ever consider that I would ever receive news like this. It's not something you ever imagine happening to you, much less when you're young, and supposedly in your prime. It's a shock, and it's something that will take me awhile to get my head around. I've been told that my condition is inoperable, but considering how most patients suffering from the same disease happen to be in their late sixties to eighties, already weak from fighting previous kinds of cancer and other various diseases, I'm determined to be the outlier. I'm relatively healthy, my diet is good, I've always been active, and I have access to excellent healthcare. It could be a lot worse.

It's big, but it won't completely take over my life. I'll be heading into chemo in a few weeks, but I'll be back in college, eventually. I'll still be applying for university. I'll still be writing. Uniform Makes for Brotherhood **WILL** continue, that I can stress, and for those who are interested, I'll also be uploading some of my own work in the near future as well - that has already been written, it's just formatting. I'll leave the link on my profile page for those who wish to take a look, eventually.

We humans can get in a few good licks before we surrender - and I fully intend to do so. Writing is one of the few things I really find entertaining, UmFB is a fantastic experience, working with other people to make a story that, yes while merely a fan-fic, made me excited to continue. It still does now.

So I thank you all for your patience. It's been awhile, but this is really something I hope to maintain. It might just take me a little longer, is all.

Again, thank you. I'll have more updates eventually.


	11. Chapter 2, Part 1: Capture the Flag

**[ONE]**

|‖ тне цпіћіբоѓщ щакеѕ բоя вготћеяћооԁ ‖|  
[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **|‖ CHAPTER TWO, PART ONE ‖|  
CAPTURE THE FLAG**

 **TWO YEARS AGO**

"― _the Metropolitan Surgical event, remember_?"

The way Father says it, casually, like he's simply remarking on the weather or debating wherever the newly refined method of creating stem cells will be any way beneficial, draws him out of his musing. It's late evening, and if you had asked Marcus this morning wherever he had intended to leave Professor Meyer's office to spend the following afternoon at home, he would not have known the answer.

And even if he had done―found an answer that is―it would have been an astonishingly indecisive one indeed.

The truth was, he really did not know. Each decision both had its faults. On one hand, most of his preliminary notes for the One State are at the University―so it is at the University, Marcus reasons, where he really ought to be. On the other hand, however, since the research's success and the written document that has ultimately followed, he hasn't been home as frequently as he really ought to be, either, and that makes him feel downright uncomfortable. It is one of those times where nothing is as black and white as he'd quite like it to be.

And now he is sitting at his spot at the table, which an evening paper and a half eaten plate of _friese lamsbout_ in front of him, trying to recall just what it was that Father had been talking about.

"Yes." Marcus guesses, and once he gauges that it was indeed the appropriate response, he glances down at the segment on Mikheil Saakashvili, Georgia's president, offering an immediate ceasefire to South Ossetian authorities. "Loi―... Dr. Christensen mentioned it. And Everett."

"Everett?" Father asks, but judging by his tone, he is simply asking to make conversation. _Okay_. Marcus thinks. _I can do that._

The back of his head aches. Marcus stares hard at the paper in front of him and does what Dr. Christiensen taught him to do. He hears nothing. He breathes in and counts to ten. He concentrates on the words before him. He concentrates on the sun on the horizon to his far right. He concentrates on how he's supposed to be respecting himself right now.

 _Only you can allow yourself to be angry_. As Dr. Christensen says.

Angry? Marcus Manderfeld is not angry. He doesn't do what he does because he's _angry_. Wrath is not for him to deliver.

The Other Him might be. Angry, that is. Marcus wouldn't know. But if you asked for his opinion, he'd say that the Other Him was scared. Definitely so. Which was probably the reason why Marcus was no longer scared of himself.

Oh, he was afraid of what he could _do_. Leonard Van Schoorl was still in the hospital with that head injury. The scar of Father's is still there, hidden under the pristine white shirt sent straight from Cologne and navy Houndstooth check pattern tie. But of himself? Marcus couldn't be scared of himself. For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. And when he wasn't blacked out and out of control, Marcus likes to think he has a sound mind. That he's... for the most part... _okay_.

Honestly. The Other Him does not scare him because Marcus knows he's only angry because he's scared himself. And he means the other him, here. The him that isn't him.

"Dr. Atling," he clarifies, then turns the page over. Sports. The National Olympic Committee has officially announced that Durban, South Africa will be the host city of the 123rd IOC Session. It's not tennis, that's the only thing that Marcus likes to play and there is nothing about anything he likes, so he turns the page over again.

"Ah. So, you will be joining me then?" Marcus sees Father shift in his peripheral to re-consider his bourbon―Marucs only has tea, because he doesn't actually like alcohol and too much coffee too frequently makes him jittery (though, his tolerance is stupidly high compared to the average consumer) and that won't do. He needs complete control.

"Of course. Mm, it's the best day of the year," he jokes, and Clara snorts from her side of the table. She's never been to one; but then, hanging around a bunch of older, established doctors and surgeons really doesn't sound too interesting, especially for someone her age. It's barely interesting enough for him. There's a brief moment of excitement when something is revealed; a new procedure, a new surgical advancement, but then it is all said and done by the end of the morning and they're back to standing around talking about how Dr. Hawthorne recently expanded his practice by early afternoon.

And that's for the doctors themselves. Marcus is not a doctor. He's only dragged along because Father is still hoping that he'll clean up his act and finally get that degree. He could. If it wasn't for Professor Meyer, he'd be well into his way for a second Ph.D. by now, but alas; it's not to be.

It leaves Marcus spending the entire event standing around in a semi-mute silence, considering his barely touched glass of scotch, wondering why it was that he was there, and wishing that he had eaten properly beforehand.

Marcus was well used to these sort of gatherings―meetings, presentations, events, dinners―but it doesn't mean he strictly enjoys them. He'd been attending them well before he even considered medical school. There were the University and College graduate gatherings, which had only ever been attended by older doctors like Father who are simply there because their respective graduate descendants are there, the respective graduate descendants themselves, and those who signed the signatures on their medical diplomas. Marcus attends these because his cousins might be attending them. He missed out on this particular festivity himself because of his apparently abhorrent life choices.

Then there was the kind of senior-doctor sit-down white-tie dinner parties, which again are only populated by doctors like Father, whom Marcus only accompanies because he was either told to, he knew some of the people there, he didn't have anything better to be doing, or some combination of the above.

And, lastly, there was the Society-backed gathering with presentations and collaborations; the kind they'd be attending, that lasted a few days at one time. The kind of event where everyone is mandated to attend, where someone always ends up having a little too much to drink, where he would be interrogated by at least nine different people over the age of sixty, and eventually end up going hungry despite eating too many crudités.

The latter was quite the miserable experience and not just because of the hunger issue, either.

"It's not that bad." Father defends, seeing his expression, and Marcus ticks his head in the way of agreement. Sure, it's not _that_ bad. Generally, they're better than any sort of University event Professor Meyer insists on dragging him too because of the simple, glaring fact that he is Dr. Manderfeld's sainted offspring, complete with the apparent perks that such an existence brings, but he's got the distinct impression that it will be worse this year, and not just because of the fact he was struggling to recall his childhood memories a few weeks ago. Something just feels off. There has been this rise in tension ever since the riot and it makes him feel unsettled.

And it's because he's unsettled that he won't look up from the paper. It leaves him staring at a page full of adverts.

"There's not much more to tell. If you don't go, what do you think will happen?"

"Mocking and general misery." Marcus suggests. And he's right in some sense. Christensen would never let it go. Especially since Everett wouldn't likely be staying for the whole thing.

"Right. Well, there is that." Father said this lightly, but he is looking at Marcus oddly and for the life of him, Marcus doesn't know why. Well, he has a good idea, but he is in no way sure how it pertains to this conversation here. "I'm not saying it's a night at the Delmonico, but why not go?"

Marcus lowers the paper. Although from under a shirt, tie and waistcoat nobody should be able to tell, he still tries to stop himself from tensing all the same. "I'm not saying I _don't_ want to go, I..."

Father inclines his head. Marcus allows himself to relax a little.

He doesn't need to say any more than that. Having read most of the paper and having found nothing interesting, he sits there awkwardly for a few seconds, not entirely sure what to do with himself.

"Eat something, Albertus." Said Father. He should make that his motto, Marcus thought. _Eat something, Albertus._ So he made a game of seeing how long he could chew a single bite, watching Father watch him―and then Carla, who had caught on immediately, her own mouth moving in synchrony. If Marcus made a face, would his sister do it, too? The thought made him grin.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

 **PREASENT DAY.**

"Come on, Terry. Show us what you've got." Fox growled, smiling.

Stood in a new set of PT gear, Terrence raised both of his eyebrows.

"I fully intend to," he grumbled. They stood there glaring at each other. Then, without due warning, Terrence suddenly flipped a dime. It flew up and fell on the ground, and close to everyone in the near vicinity raced over to see if it happened to be heads or tails.

"Heads, yes! I pick first!" Fox pumped her fist, grinning broadly. Terrence sighed but pocketed the coin all the same.

It was Capture the Flag. According to S.H.I.E.L.D. military training, it was good for unit cohesion and individual tactical awareness. The team here, however, played it for recreation. And bragging rights.

Fox and Terrence, with a distinct absence of Manderfeld—Fox's preferred pastime rival—took the role of team captains. They, Fox, Terrence, Evans, Queen, Anderson, Desdemona, Ki and Andrei all stood around in the large clearing just around the back of base. Although they couldn't see nor hear him, Manderfeld himself was back in base watching them on twenty-odd different CCTV screens, doing whatever Manderfeld was doing when not quoting the New Testament and generally studying himself to death, but still with them with the addition of a comm unit connected to Operations. He couldn't paticipate—it was agreed to be too dangerous—but he did have his uses regardless; being the freaky history tactical analysis that he was, he was going to be overseeing their little game.

He _had_ agreed to not play favorites.

But who can be sure, honestly? Fox and Terrence eyed one another up constantly, just in case the Dungeon Master was whispering secretly between players.

"Okay," Terrence sighed. "Go ahead and pick."

Fox had been thinking of a good team. Powers, they had long since decided, were allowed (the reason for Manderfeld's absence) and it has brought along a sense of excitable tension. When they trained their abilities they generally trained alone—this was going to be the first time they could all show-off.

She slapped her hands together. "Anderson."

"Evans."

"Ki."

"Queen."

"Desdemona."

"Andrei."

Queen frowned and looked deeply at Andrei. "Where's your brother?"

"Doctor." Andrei grunted. "He wouldn't play, anyway."

"All's good." Evans quipped in. "With Marcus out, we'd be odd numbered."

"The girl?"

"You want to play glorified full-contact football with a child?"

Andrei pulled a face.

Terrence considered for a second, and glanced once at Fox. "Are we having jails?"

"Manderfeld said he would be " _bitterly displeased_ " if we resorted to captive tactics."

"It's capture the flag."

Fox shrugged. "Yeah, flags not fellows, neh? By all means, though, knock one another out if you're desperate." She glances once at Queen. "Oh, and no freaky mind control bull, eh? Same goes for you, big guy." A hand is waved in the Ukrainian's direction.

Queen snorts. "It's not _mind_ control."

"Whatever it is, mate, it's creepy."

She and the rest of her team begin to walk to their sides of the compound.

"But if you get close to the river," Fox gives her a conspiratorial look.

Queen laughs.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

Three days into Stage Two, and it's become obvious to the outliers that the team has managed to dissolve into two specific groups. Nothing cohesion splitting, which Skye had at first feared, but rather a subtle little division when it came to downtime habits.

Coulson had come in a few weeks aftward, more out of regularity than anything else; he was not happy, but it was unavoidable.

This group, this team, it is big. Splitting was going to happen, particularly with the broad range of attributes and backgrounds. Though, perhaps not broad enough. The group was split, for the most part, between the S.H.I.E.L.D. regulars and what has quietly become known as "Manderfeld's Legion".

For the former it is understandable. Agents Fox and Queen, led by Skye, have been together for longer; they are committed to S.H.I.E.L.D. and are used to it's requirements, so it's only natural that they remain together as a functional group. Terrence had followed their lead to join in with the regulars out of a sheer need for order and authority, and due to a sharp fundamental inconsistency with Manderfeld himself. Andrei was left to fade in and out, much like Ki-Mei. Neither of the two were permanent fixtures in any group. They enjoyed their own company.

Manderfeld meanwhile had propelled himself into a leadership role almost unexpectedly. His sudden show of political libido had earned him a very loyal circle of friends, but it was his nature as a complex character of depth and sensitivity, a _regular guy_ , meditating problems and concerns that brought them all on further. His biggest allies at the moment appeared, from Coulson's limited perceptive, to be Elyssa Evens and Oliva Anderson. Juniper Desdemona appeared to be forming into a wayward lieutenant, and Manderfeld's stout religiosity helped, but his close friendship with Artyom kept the younger man at arms reach. Much like his brother, the Ukrainian also remained on the fringes.

In fact, Artyom had barely associated with anyone aside from Skye and Juniper. He seemed to be struggling.

As for the girl, Serena Barnes, she sat easily with Manderfeld, but on a wholly different notion.

She wasn't part of his "group", but rather belonged to him in a different sense; he'd taken her under his wing.

Either to protect her from active duty or because he knows what having a sister is like, again, Coulson does not know. Only that it has happened, and that young Serena's loyalties stuck firmly with the Legate.

Part of him wishes that he had drilled them in as regular S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits; taught them to obey, taught them to work as one single force, but he knows that it would have never worked. They've simply aligned themselves according to past circumstances. Manderfeld had the civilians, Skye had the agents.

Perhaps, as they all grew into their respective roles, the lines would fade.

But it was Manderfeld's behaviour that was causing him some concern. He doesn't know if the Omnicop' Factor had any preferences, but he subtle protective streak _is_ there.

Dr. Manderfeld, sat in a desk chair that seems too small for his large frame, shakes his head. "I doubt it." A frustrated tap of the keyboard and whatever he was doing previously is hidden behind a screensaver. "You come to expect these from him, my boy. If I hadn't known any better I'd have called him out as a democrat, but he's hardly that; his namesake makes more sense than you might realise. He's more like Ceasar, I dare say—a little tyrant in necessity's clothing."

"You'd say that about your own son?" Coulson frowns. Dr. Manderfeld actually laughs, but it's dry.

"My son, Director Coulson, has always been smarter than he looks." Dr. Manderfeld drawls, eyeing Coulson idly. "He studied the world's military history not because he's interested, he isn't—he's a pacifist—but because he's _good_ at it; he knows, my boy does, that democracy often does not work. First comes yelling. Frustration. Indecision. Disagreements. But then, ideas. He's a dictator at heart, but a good one; he's got his people at his core, and if he can skip the petty in-fighting to get to thodr ideas at hand, then success is inevitable."

Coulson did not look to comfortable with this relevation.

"And before you ask, you can force him before any number of specialists as you see fit; a mother's instinct is never wrong, and a father's, for that matter, is not far behind. I did warn you. We both did."

"We are to blame for that. I know."

"Keep digging that hole of yours, Director. One day you might end up falling in it."

And with that, Dr. Manderfeld turns around back to his computer. Message sent. Conversation done. Coulson takes his leave.

Warning received.

* * *

[the uniform makes for brotherhood]

* * *

The clock on her console clicked, precisely four hours after she'd gone to sleep, and Agent Fox was awake. Time to get up. Time to make the bed.

The clock clicked again, and she was on the floor. Her exercises were as fluid and mechanical as the rest of her morning routine. One hundred crunches, each repetition done perfectly, without the tiniest wavering. One hundred lunges. One hundred leg lifts. No mart of her body or mind was idle - tiny flickers of blue lanced on her fingertips as her hands moved from mnemonic to mnemonic. She counted down the time in her head, the spaces between each second filled with furious thinking and mental exercises. She calmly muttered the credit value of the world's current currencies, then moved on to the names and titles of the two-hundred most influential humans. The elements were next, followed by a few sentences in eight languages, one after another.

The clock clicked again exactly as her mental count reached zero, and Fox rolled onto her hands. Her body was stock still as she lifted it straight up, heels together, and held it for a few seconds before lowering it again. In her head she moved onto math, calling to mind the critical equations of chemical kinetics, economic formulas, and everything in between. It was the same lengthy mantra she'd recited every morning for fifteen years—one of the few remnants of her old life she still carried.

She could not stop. She'd tried, desperately tried, but the compulsions were too strong. It never changed. She always did it without fail. She always finished each part at the appropriate second. She did not improve, or try to—she was already there. Already perfect. The few girls her age she'd known as a child had called her a robot.

There was a knock at her door.

When she did not answer the door opened and Marcus Manderfeld entered. She stared at him, upside-down, her lips still silently moving around each muttered fact. She always hated people to see her exercising—she understood the purpose of her morning mantra, how it kept her mind and body well-honed, and yet it had always felt like a weakness to her, like something of which she should be ashamed of.

True to his nature, though, Manderfeld did not take the opportunity to look at the shapely woman standing on her fingertips in front of him, but crossed his arms and waited, eyes politely averted and an amused smile on his face.

Fox was grateful for his respect.

But there was also surprise, in the fact that Manderfeld was here, now. He had been in a terrible mood for the past week and a half. Stresses of trade, combined with a nasty string of Episodes brought on after the incident in New York and his apparent intolerance for using _children_ in one's line of work was more than enough to send even the mild-mannered Manderfeld over the edge. It's been three days since he last spoke to her; six days, courteously.

But, he also looks better. He's back in uniform and smiling, so it's got to be something.

The clock finally clicked and rolled over into a new countdown (Arm pulls and the names of every ship in the US Navy fleet) until Fox shut it off with a lightning-quick jab of her finger. It had taken quite some time before she was able to stop the program between modules (and she still couldn't bring herself to quit _during_ an exercise in progress). Her muscles burned the tiniest bit, and a thin film of sweat clung to her skin as she finally acknowledged Manderfeld's presence.

He met her gaze if only for a split second.

She knows now, what to expect. It took her longer, them all longer, because they were also learning other people's behaviours as well, but they've spent long enough together, now, to come to terms with the little details. Manderfeld is a man of very central habits. Simple non-verbal communication and skillful verbal communication; very dignified in the way of speech, very educated, but also forthcoming in gestures and expressions. Calm and collected, simple and straight forward. Polite. The eye contact does not vary, she has since discovered, but is different according to set scenarios. Him looking at her for that small, tiny moment is as much acknowledgement as it is respect.

It's the same in reverse; Manderfeld knows that she hates to be seen like this. That she likes to be approached from the front, rather than from behind. That she likes to hang closer to the wall. He's gotten used to her slang, understands it as much as he's started understanding the Volkov's Ukranian.

(Even now, with everything she's seen, it's incredible how quickly that man can learn languages.

He's a savant. No hedging around it.)

"I'm sorry," he said, looking genuinely regretful. "I know you don't like to be interrupted."

"I'm fine," she said, trying and failing to brush the warships out of her mind. "What do you need?"

Manderfeld must have noticed her lips moving, for he shook his head. He looked almost sorry for her. "What is it this time?" he asked, ignoring her question.

"Ships," she said. Unbidden, her mind moved onto the cruisers.

"Sorry," he repeated. At her impatient look, he continued. "But I've found something. Something good, I think."

"You think?"

"Mhn," a head tilt. "I've found the company. And who owns it, and that they recently shipped a supposed HYDRA agent across the country. Very recently."

Fox frowned. In between ship names, her mind reeled with possibilities. Surely he wasn't so short-sighted that he'd shelve the possibility of keeping them updated. Manderfeld must have felt her sudden spike in surprised anger, because he shifted, and she recognised the first of at least nine separate warning signs; his left hand, his good one, had clenched.

He breathed out. "Last time we went into something unprepared, people died."

"Bad people."

"He that speaketh evil of his brother, and judgeth his brother, speaketh evil of the law, and judgeth the law." He grumbled under his breath. "In any case, I need you. We're going over possible recon on the company."

"And the HYDRA Agent?"

"With Skye gone, it's up to me. I've talked with Andrei and Artyom, together with you, they said they might get some headway. That is, if you agree." He breathes in sharply. "For now, however, we _plan_."

"Well... Let's go talk to them," Fox said. She walked forward and Manderfeld stepped aside, letting her pass.

"The ships thing?" He said from behind her. "Not good for you."

Fox just scoffed as she pressed the elevator control panel. "Like you can talk,"

Manderfeld let out a low, chuffing noise from behind her, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

"It was never about being good for me, kameraad."

* * *

 **[the uniform makes for brotherhood]**

* * *

omg I'm sorry but Fallout 4 is here, and, yeah.

\- Manderfeld's history may or may not bring insights into the major plot at hand ;O So watch out for that.

\- Also, his father is a dick. Js.

\- Capture the Flag was played when I did Cadets yonks ago. I never gave it much thought at the time, but thinking back now, it really is a great game for team building. Capture the Flag with superpowers? Yikes.

\- Seriously though Fallout 4

\- Guess which one of the so-called baddies will be showing up next!

\- And this is where I go and do that politics essay of mine. Shortish chapter today, but the next one is planned. Mostly.


	12. An Important Announcement

This is a message delivered by one of Norsemugnandr's peers.

Unfortunately, last night Nikolai "Norsemungandr" Aksakov passed away after an unexpected complication following surgery. It was, sadly, not an unexpected outcome but is heartbreaking all the same. Over the past few years, Nikolai has fought hard to fight against a disease that came from seemingly nowhere and caught us all by surprise, but most of all, shocked a seemingly healthy and unsuspecting eighteen-year-old to the core.

Yet despite this, despite the pain and the discomfort, Nikolai spent his last few years doing what he loved, and that was contributing to the AoS Fanworks, from aiding us in our own projects to continuing on his own. He was a major inspiration for our own works, the first out of our own RP group to take the plunge, who brought us into the world of AoS and the world of OC-led projects.

While _A Uniform Makes For Brotherhood_ hasn't been updated since 2015, by no fault of his own, Norse had been working hard to continue the story. When it became clear that he wouldn't become well enough to continue, he provided me and another SYOC writer with the complete further drafts, character notes and other resources to continue.

Norsemungandr stressed that we should only continue on his behalf if people were willing to have the story continued by other authors.

This is his wish, and I along with Civillian and Alfenide intend to keep it. Even if this SYOC does not continue, we have all of his works saved. _Nothing_ will be lost.

Nikolai was a good friend who despite we never having never met in person, was a frequent and loyal companion throughout high school, college, university and even our pre-career lives. He wrote a highly popular and extremely well-written story on the basis of a single prompt and inspired us to do the same.

We lost a fellow agent today,  
But, we will continue to keep Nikolai's work carried on in his memory.

~ Max Hyenada, Civillian, and Alfenide.


End file.
